Westward, Ho-Boy!
by Polgana
Summary: The twins from Triple Play decide that Gary needs a vacation. It pretty much goes downhill from there. Sixth in a series. Thanks to Vicky Jo, my partner in crime. I couldn't have written this without her.
1. Busted In 'Vegas

Excerpt from Triple Play:  
  
Jake's secretary stood close to the door, unaware of the crowd growing behind her as word spread of the three men who looked so much like her boss. She was listening intently, trying to picture Mr. Evans' reaction to the astounding group. Wait! What was going on? Someone had just shouted something. It had sounded suspiciously like 'Catch him!' At that moment, the door was snatched open and she was almost bowled over by the young man with the bandage on one cheek. He never slowed a step. His right foot hit the seat of her chair, launching him clear over her desk in one stupendous, panic driven leap! The crowd of gaping onlookers scattered as he bolted for the nearest exit.  
  
The other two came barreling past a second later, running around her desk instead of over it. One of them yelled something about a check as they disappeared down the hallway. Stunned, Jake's secretary turned to see her boss and a woman in her forties standing in the doorway. Mr. Evans looked just as amazed as she felt.   
  
The woman turned to him with a martyred expression and a strained smile. "Please forgive the disturbance," she drawled. "Gary's been under a lot of stress lately."  
  
Jake slowly turned to face her; his own eyes a little wild.  
  
"Ya think?"  
  
**************  
  
Author's note: This is the sequel to Triple Play, obviously. The twins think Gary is a little stressed out and needs a break. Get real people! Remember who's writing this story. You know that's not gonna happen!   
  
Rating? Hmm. R, maybe. I've 'bleeped' out the worst of the language, but it is alluded to, and there is some pretty graphic violence in here, although I've tried to keep it within tasteful limits. (No gore0  
  
Disclaimer: Yes, a couple or so of these characters are mine, just not the best ones. Most belong to: Early Edition, Convict Cowboy, Pure Country, Sleep Baby Sleep, Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, Walker: Texas Ranger, What About Kyle, um, I mean What About Joan, Martial Law, a little ER, I think that's everyone. Apologies to anyone I left out. I just take this guys out to play with, from time to time. A girl can dream, can't she?  
  
Westward Ho-Boy!  
By Polgana  
  
Gary Hobson hit the stairwell at a dead run, regarding the elevator as being too slow. He had to get out of there fast! He needed to get away from all those people, all those faces, that were mirror images of his own. He bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, at an incredibly reckless pace. A feat that he would not even have considered less than a month ago! Especially after that horrible fall he had taken down his own stairwell a little over a year and a half before. A fall that had almost killed him, leaving him paralyzed from the hips down for most of that year. The bizarre events of the past month, however, had pushed that completely out of his mind.  
  
He exited the stairwell as fast as he had entered, knocking the ground floor door open with a loud, echoing bang. Gary never slowed his headlong race for freedom as he headed for the front lobby of the major investment firm that Jake Evans worked for. Jake Evans. The fourth, no fifth man that Gary had met recently who was a dead ringer for the young tavern owner. Right down to their mud puddle green eyes, and the tiny birthmark just below the right sideburn. It was too much! Gary felt as if he were in the 'Twilight Zone' episode from hell!   
  
Gary rounded a corner into the lobby, only to find a security guard blocking the front entrance. Panicked, he looked around for another way out, only to see Clay Treyton and Buddy Jackson, his twin cousins, coming around another corner. They had taken the elevator that he had avoided. The twins quickly spread out, Clay putting himself between Gary and the stairwell. Trapped, Gary stood where he was, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.   
  
"Take it easy, Cuz," Buddy told him in what the young songwriter hoped was a soothing voice. "This has got us all a little freaked out. Why don't we just go back upstairs and sit down, talk this out."  
  
"He's right, Gary," Clay murmured, using the same tone he would use on a skittish colt. "We can sort this all out later. Right now, we have business to take care of. Don't forget, we left Ms. Polly up there. You can't go runnin' off like this and leave yo're friends behind. It ain't polite."  
  
Heart still pounding from both anxiety and his exertions, Gary backed away from the other two men one slow step at a time. They kept pace with him, gently herding him toward a row of benches against the wall behind him. Gary abruptly sat down when his legs encountered one of the low seats. Defeated, he wrapped his arms over his head and lowered it to his knees. Wordlessly, he sat there, rocking back and forth as his cousins eased down on either side of him.  
  
"It's okay, Cuz," Buddy crooned softly, gently rubbing a hand up and down his cousin's back. He felt muscles knotted with so much tension they could've been played like guitar strings. "We know thing's 've been a little rough, lately. What say we head back upstairs, get this business over with, and then we can talk about getting away for a while. Just the three of us. We can hang out, get to know each other a little better, just . . . kick back and relax."  
  
"Relax," Gary repeated in a low monotone. He had known what that word meant . . . once. A long time ago. "H-how do you do that?"  
  
"We head out west," Clay suggested. "Maybe go to Vegas, or down to Texas. I need to be there for the Nationals, anyway. We could go a week early 'n' do a little gambling. Maybe catch a few of those shows they got in those casinos. There's lots we can do."  
  
"Can't," Gary sighed, head still pressed against his knees. "Re-responsibilities. The . . . the bar, and . . . things."  
  
"Your folks and Ms. Clark took care of everything just fine while you were in the hospital," Clay reminded him. "They should be able to handle things for a coupla more weeks."  
  
"Tell you what, Cuz," Buddy said with a lopsided grin, "why don't we sit down with 'em this evening' and talk it out? I have a feelin' they'll be all for this."  
  
Gary tried to remember the last time he had gone somewhere just to relax. He couldn't. The closest he could recall was that day at the planetarium with Erica. Just before . . . just before he failed to rescue Jeremiah Mason. Maybe the twins were right. Maybe he did need some time off. From everything.  
  
Slowly, Gary straightened halfway up with a deep, shuddering sigh. He brought his arms down from his head, wrapping them around his abdomen instead. Peering at Clay from over the bandage that still covered his left cheek, then at Buddy on his right, he closed his mud-puddle green eyes with a sigh and a slow nod.  
  
"Good man," Buddy sighed. "I'm sure Ms. Polly has gotten the ball rollin' for us. What say we go on up and close this deal?"  
  
Gary licked dry lips and nodded wordlessly. He let his two cousins help him to his feet and lead him back toward the elevators. Feeling tired and confused, he allowed them to guide him, too dazed to remember where he was going. He could do this. They'd just explain to Evans about the reward money, and tell him what they had in mind for the bulk of it. Then they would leave the details up to him. Gary Hobson was going to take a much-needed vacation.  
  
*****************  
  
As Gary and the twins stepped off the elevator the young tavern owner kept his gaze directed at the floor. He was too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the curious onlookers who still crowded the lobby of Jake Evan's office. Buddy and Clay calmly led their sheepish cousin back into the scene of his most recent upset.   
  
"Get on with yo're business, folks," Clay drawled. "Ain't ya'll never seen triplets before?"  
  
Flustered, most of the crowd took his advice. A few, however, gawked after the trio in open amazement. Buddy shot a small group such a withering look they finally got the message and began clearing the room. Gary was oblivious to all this, as he had yet to raise his eyes from the floor, content to let his twin cousins guide his faltering steps.  
  
The twins led him through the door and set him down in one of the easy chairs facing the desk. Finally, Gary slowly raised his eyes to meet a set identical to his own. Expecting to see a look of amusement, or even ridicule, he saw only concern and a little fear expressed in those mud-puddle green eyes.  
  
"Y-you okay?" Jake Evans asked hesitantly. He didn't want the poor guy to have another panic attack.  
  
Gary just nodded wordlessly. He was still too numb to trust himself to speak.   
  
"M-ms. Gannon has explained to me a-about the reward money," Evans continued nervously. "She, um, also told me what you have in mind for the bulk of it. I have to say that it's a wonderful idea, and very commendable. I can help you set up a foundation with a board of trustees who'll be more than happy to oversee your project. I know of a few good people who'd be willing to do it for only a token retainer."  
  
"That's good of 'em," Buddy replied as he gave Gary's shoulder a gentle nudge. "Ain't it, Cuz?" Again, Gary just nodded. "Why so generous? I know most of these people draw big paychecks for consultin' work."  
  
"Because they were adopted as children themselves," Jake answered with a wary smile. "Two of them have foster children of their own. These people have been looking for someone to help fund a project like this for years. If you like, I can give them a call today and get the ball rolling for you. We can work out the details after I've gotten them on board, and have all the papers ready to sign within a couple of weeks."  
  
"Weeks?" Clay asked, giving Gary a sideways look of concern. "Do we need to be here in town while all this is being set up?"  
  
Jake followed the wrangler's gaze. The fellow with the long bandage covering most of one cheek was looking almost as pale as that first moment Jake had seen him. He had yet to say a word, making the young executive wonder if he needed a doctor.  
  
"Wh-what are you planning?" he asked cautiously.   
  
"Just a little vacation," Buddy shrugged, a little fidgety himself. Gary hadn't been the only one spooked by the uncanny resemblance. "See Gary, here, just got out of the hospital a few days ago and he's had a pretty rough time of it these last few weeks. We only found out this week that the three of us are related. Clay and myself are twins, but I was stolen when I was born. Gary is a long lost cousin. I got no idea where you and that Chandler dude come into the picture, but I cain't wait t' find out."  
  
"Me neither," Clay agreed with a laconic grin. "I've been wonderin' if all this talk about human cloning ain't just a mite late."  
  
"Amen," Gary murmured in a voice almost too low to hear.  
  
"Ch-chandler?" Jake stammered, puzzled. "You mean there's another one of . . . us?"  
  
"Shore is," Clay grinned. "An actor on some sit-com they were filmin' over on Taylor Street. We met him through his cousin, Dusty Wyatt Chandler, the singer. Scared the crap outta him, too."  
  
"Wish I'd been there to see that," Polly sighed. "I keep missin' out on the good stuff."  
  
"I passed out," Gary mumbled. "Thought he was Tony come back to haunt me some more."  
  
Polly gave her young friend a look of open concern. Laying a gentle hand on his chin, she turned his head to face her. "It's okay to be upset, sweetie," she told him. "You've had one shock on top of another. But Tony's passed on. He cain't get inside yo're head anymore."  
  
"I know that," Gary sighed, unable to meet her open gaze. "And I know there's got to be an explanation for . . . all this," he added, waving a hand to include Jake and the twins. "I . . . I just don't know what it is yet."  
  
"And you may never know," the motherly x-ray tech warned him. "Some things are just meant to stay a mystery. All of you may find you have one common ancestor back eight or nine generations past. Or you may find you ain't related at all. I tell you what, I'll work with Mr. Evans and his cronies to get this deal set up. We knew it wasn't gonna happen overnight. You fellas can go ahead and plan yo're vacation and leave the worryin' to me. I'm real good at it."  
  
That brought a choked laughed and a tiny, if strained, grin from the young bar owner. "Polly, you don't worry about anything," he remarked. "You just do whatever it takes to get the job done."  
  
"Like you?"  
  
"Sorta, I guess," Gary replied, his face going red at the implied compliment. He turned to Jake Evans, finally able to look at the other man without flinching. "Can she do that? Act as our agent to work out the details? We can sign a 'power of attorney' if we need to."  
  
"That might be best," Jake nodded. This Hobson fellow looked as if he really needed a break. "I can have my secretary draw up the necessary papers. It'll just take a little while." He turned to his intercom and pressed the speaker switch, giving his secretary quick, concise instructions. Smiling nervously, he turned back to his new clients. "Most of this will be out of the way by the time you make travel arrangements, though. So . . . wh-where are you going for your little getaway?" he asked the other three men.  
  
"We were thinkin' of Vegas," Clay replied. "Do a little gamblin', take in some shows. Mostly just kick back and relax for a few days. There's supposed to be a big charity rodeo in a few weeks. I thought these two would enjoy that. Then head south and introduce Gary and Buddy to my folks, then go meet Buddy's adopted family. There's still a few small-time rodeo's goin' on, so I might could get in a little ridin', show these good-ol' boys what it's like."  
  
"That sounds like fun," Jake grinned. "I haven't been to Vegas in quite awhile. Once we get this deal in the works, maybe I can meet you there before you head back this way."   
  
Buddy and Clay exchanged a questioning look, then both broke into mischievous grins. "I think that'd be a great idea," Clay replied.  
  
"Just think of the possibilities," Buddy added. "We could really blow some minds in Vegas!"  
  
Jake's gaze swept over all three men as a wicked grin spread across his handsome face. "This could be fun."  
  
"Speaking of fun," Buddy drawled, turning to face his cousin, "Lois and Bernie need to meet Jake, don't ya think?"  
  
For the first time since catching sight of yet another version of himself, Gary felt the corners of his mouth curve into a slow smile. Oh yes. His parents definitely needed to meet Jake.  
  
*****************  
  
"How did it go, hon?" Lois asked as the trio returned through McGinty's front door. "Is everything set?"  
  
'Gary' paused to listen to something Buddy was whispering in his ear before turning to her with a warm smile.  
  
"Everything's fine . . . Mom," he told her, one hand reaching up to touch the bandage on his left cheek. "M-Mr. Evans wants me to bring him my books, though," he told her. "He has some ideas . . . um, I-I'll be in my office." He flashed her a fleeting smile and led the way toward the back of the barroom. Buddy saved him from going through the wrong door with a quick tug on his sleeve.   
  
Puzzled, and more than a little concerned, Lois grabbed Clay by the arm. She was pretty sure he was Clay.   
  
"Did something happen?" she asked the young cowboy. "He seems . . . nervous."  
  
"He's still a tad spooked from meetin' that Chandler fella," Clay told her. "This has been more than a little strange for all of us, but Buddy 'n' me, we were lookin' for someone that might be wearin' this face. Granted we found more than we bargained for, but we were ready for it. This hit Gary completely out of the blue. Then he had that Tony fella rattlin' around inside his head. Kinda knocked the breath out of 'im. Know what I mean?"  
  
"Oh, Lord yes!" Lois sighed. "Seeing you three together that first time sort of rattled my nerves a little too. And with everything else that he was going through, it's a wonder he still has a mind left." She hooked her arm through his and steered him toward the office. "Let's go see if he still has sense enough to find his own ledgers."  
  
They found the other two seated at Gary's desk, heads bent over a set of account books and talking animatedly. In fact, 'Gary' looked positively enthused as he explained something to Buddy about 'net,' 'gross,' and 'capital gain.' He then launched into a lively discourse on how the stock market worked.   
  
Stunned, it was a moment before Lois could get her wits together. Letting go of Clay's arm, she marched up to the desk and grabbed 'Gary' by the front of his sheepskin jacket. It was only then that she saw the tie underneath. For the first time, she also noticed that he was wearing dark slacks instead of jeans. The look on her face would have sent an invading army running for cover.  
  
"Just who are you, Mister?" she snapped. "And what have you done with my son?"  
  
"Mom."  
  
Lois looked up to see another 'Gary' standing in the door of the office.  
  
"Mom," the fourth, or was this the first, 'Gary' repeated. "Let me introduce Mr. Jake Evans, our new financial counselor for the foundation. Jake, this is my mother, Lois Hobson. And the fella at the back door with his jaw dragging the ground is my dad, Bernie."  
  
"Pleased to meet you," Jake replied with a nervous grin. "This was just as big a shock for me, believe me!"  
  
"What the living Hell is goin' on here?" Bernie asked, setting down the case of 'long-necks' he had been carrying in from the storeroom. "Did they stamp you guys out with a cookie cutter?" He turned to face Lois with an expression of alarm. "I swear to ya, Lo," he pleaded. "I had nothin' to do with this!"  
  
"Don't be silly, Bernie!" Lois snorted daintily. "Of course you didn't. Gary's looks come from my mother's side of the family. But, I'm beginning to wonder if the rumors about Uncle Steven weren't true. Mother always said he had the morals of an alley cat."  
  
"I'm sorry about this, Mom. Dad," Gary apologized, giving them each a hug. "I just thought it would be easier on you this way, than to have it sprung on you all of a sudden."  
  
Lois looked her real son over carefully, noticing the new lines of tension bracketing his mouth and eyes. "Did you pass out again?" she asked with concern.  
  
"Worse," Gary sighed.  
  
"Worse?" his dad said, puzzled. "What can be worse than . . . You didn't have any chest pains or headaches, did you?"  
  
"No," Gary murmured. "I, um, I ran like a rabbit."  
  
"He ain't kiddin' either," Buddy spoke up, a playful grin crossing his wholesome features. "Gary should try out for the Olympics. If leaping office furniture and mad dashes down twenty some odd flights of stairs were a scheduled event, he'd 've taken the gold, for sure."  
  
"Oh Gary," Lois sighed. "You have got to get away from all this for awhile. Your blood pressure must be through the roof right now! With all that money, surely you could use some of it for a vacation or something!"  
  
"Um, that's something else we wanted to talk to you about," Gary murmured hesitantly. "Buddy and Clay, th-they had a . . . a suggestion."  
  
"We thought of takin' him to Vegas," Clay spoke up. "We'd kick back and hit the gaming tables for a week or so, then take a little drive down to meet the folks. If we have time, that is."  
  
"That's a great idea!" Bernie chimed in with a big grin. "Your mom and I can help take care of things around here for that long, at least! Go on! Kick back! Relax! Let someone else do all the worryin' for awhile."  
  
As Jake and Gary exchanged jackets, the banker decided to give a little advice of his own. "They're right, Gary," he said, the four of them already on a first name basis. "From what I've seen so far, you're wound tighter than a mainspring. This trip you guys are planning may be just the thing to get you leveled out. Once all the details are ironed out, Ms. Gannon and I should be able to join you. She said something about the three of you needing to be 'looked after,'" he added with a grin.  
  
"She may be right," Gary sighed. "Things seem to keep happening, lately. And having someone else around who knows CPR couldn't hurt."  
  
*****************  
  
"Let me see your face," Lois Hobson insisted as her son set his suitcase down by the bar. Gary obediently turned his head so she could inspect the hair-thin red line running down his left cheek. His stitches had just been removed that morning and she wanted to be sure the wound wasn't going to reopen. "You'll be back in time for the reunion?" she asked for the hundredth time. Her hands nervously smoothed out the collar of his jacket.   
  
"It's not 'til May, Mom," Gary sighed. "We'll be back long before Christmas, I promise! It's just for a coupla weeks. We'll spend a few days in Las Vegas, then rent a car and drive around to some of the rodeos Clay was telling us about, then fly home. While I'm out there, I'll look in on that dealer who says he has that two hundred year old single malt Mr. Kovaleski was asking about. If I can make a good deal, I'll have it shipped here express."  
  
"Get an extra case for the bar, if you can," Marissa advised him as she ran her hands down her Braille copy of their inventory. "Stan Kovaleski isn't the only one who appreciates a good single malt. Oh, and see if he has any blackberry brandy and framboise. All our local suppliers are out. Holiday orders," she shrugged.  
  
"Anything else?" Gary asked with a weary sigh.   
  
"Jamaican Rum," his dad suggested. "And some dark lager. There were some guys asking about stout ale, too. I don't know exactly what those last two are, but they sound good."  
  
"They're kinda like beer, Dad," Gary told him with a tired smile. "I'll see what he has. That all? Good." He grabbed his bag and turned for the door. "I'll call you as soon as we get settled in."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want us to drive you to the airport?" Lois asked. "It's no trouble."  
  
"I'm positive, Mom," Gary sighed, his hand on the door handle. "Clay and Buddy are waiting outside in the cab. And it's starting to rain again. I'd feel much better knowing you guys were safe at home." He set his bag down, turning to give his mom another big hug. "I'll be fine, Mom. I promise. I just need to get away from all the craziness for a little while. Try to remember what it was like to be normal."  
  
"Define 'normal,' sweetie," his mother grinned, giving his ribs a gentle squeeze. "You enjoy yourself, hon. Leave all the worrying to us for a change." She stepped back, smoothing her hands along her son's shoulders and down his arms. "Go on," she added with a teary smile. "You'd better hurry or you'll miss your flight."  
  
Gary bent down and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "I love you, too, Mom." He shook his father's hand and gave Marissa a quick hug. "I'll be back before you know it. Bye, now."  
  
Once more, Gary grabbed his bag and headed out the front door. This time no one said anything to stop him. For the first time in over five years, he was going to have a real vacation. No paper, no bar, no worries at all.   
  
Right!  
  
****************  
  
"This is nice!" Buddy exclaimed appreciatively as he settled back in his seat. "I've never flown first-class before!"  
  
"Me neither," Clay sighed as he settled into his own seat. "How much did this set us back?"  
  
"Not a dime," Gary told them, failing to suppress a tiny smile at their open expressions of surprise. "I did the owner a little favor about a year ago. Got first-class passage for life any time I want, to anywhere I want. Just have to show my ID."  
  
"That must 've been one hell of a favor," Clay murmured as he fastened his seatbelt. "First-class ain't cheap. Remind me to get a copy of yo're driver's license."  
  
****************  
  
Gary stretched out on the sofa in the lounge with a sigh. He hadn't realized, until this moment, just how mentally and physically exhausted he was. The past couple of months had taken a heavy toll on his energy reserves, and his nerves. Between gangsters, ghosts, and hit-men, he had been run from one end of the city to the other, shot, beaten, nearly crushed and, to top it all off, possessed! He had also met five people, one of them now deceased, who wore faces identical to his own. Two of them had turned out to be his cousins. One had been in a coma for the past three years, after being shot and left for dead by one of the assassins who had been hired to kill Gary. Another was an actor on a sit-com being filmed in Chicago; while the fifth one was the investment banker they had turned to for advice.  
  
He had also met a couple of honest-to-God Shaolin priests, and an ex-CIA agent. As the young barkeeper drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but wonder how that 'Dragon's Wing' deal had turned out.  
  
****************  
  
They landed at McCarran Airport as the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon. As they strolled into the main concourse, Gary noted that, even at such an early hour, the place was anything but quiet. People waiting for planes lined up at several banks of slot machines. Others openly tried to haggle over airfare. Many were lined up waiting for taxis or buses. Gary and his twin cousins headed straight for the car rental agencies. The young woman at the counter was startled at first, but recovered quickly. Still, she kept giving them strange, quizzical looks as she checked her computer. Finding their reservation, she smiled graciously and quickly produced a set of keys for a late-model SUV. Minutes later, having finally claimed their luggage, the trio was on their way to the infamous 'Strip.'  
  
*****************  
  
"What do you mean?" Buddy asked angrily. "We made those reservations almost two weeks ago! Paid in advance!"  
  
"And your card has been credited with a refund," the concierge replied calmly. A nametag identified him as 'David.' "I can only offer my apologies, gentlemen," he added with an expression of true regret. "We have had three conventions in town, two of which decided to extend their stays. There's also that rodeo benefit due to start next week. Not to mention that relief concert being sponsored by Dusty Wyatt. The influx of spectators for those two events alone has accounted for every available room left in town."  
  
"So what are we supposed to do?" Clay grumbled. "Sleep on the streets? You've got to have someplace we can stay!"  
  
"Not in Las Vegas," the young man sighed, turning to his computer. "Perhaps on the outskirts . . . Let me see . . . Yes! There's a little, out-of-the-way, place just this side of Nellis Air Force Base. Reasonably priced and supposed to be rather quaint. They have one vacancy showing. Would you like me to make a reservation?"  
  
The three men exchanged wordless glances then nodded at the apologetic young man. They had to sleep somewhere.   
  
"Excellent!" David's fingers rattled swiftly over the keyboard as he fed in their names and credit information. "If you like, you can still receive messages here," he added. A moment later, he handed them a printout acknowledging their reservation and showing a detailed map to their destination. "I've been authorized to tell you that the Excalibur is picking up the tab for this. Also, we'll notify you the moment a suite becomes available. The rest of your stay will be at half price. Is that agreeable?"  
  
Gary nodded wordlessly as he accepted the slip of paper. He took one look at the name of their new lodgings and groaned. "Aw no!" he mumbled. "Is this a franchise or something?"  
  
Clay and Buddy looked at the paper and just shrugged. The name was a new one to them. It had a definite southwestern ring to it.  
  
Thirty minutes later, the trio stood on the threshold of room nineteen of the Casa Diablo Hotel. It was a rundown, 'flea-bag' of a place that reminded Gary way too much of its namesake back in Chicago. It was a small room just big enough for the king-sized bed, dresser, a tiny dining table with two chairs, and the night table that it held. A quick glimpse of the bathroom left all three men cringing in disgust.  
  
"No wonder you didn't want to stay here," Buddy murmured. "I've stayed in cleaner garbage dumps."  
  
"My cell in prison was nicer than this!" Clay shuddered. "Doesn't this come under the heading of 'substandard housing?'" he asked.  
  
"I'm all for finding a sporting-goods store and buying a tent," Buddy suggested. "Let's take our chances with the rattlesnakes and scorpions."  
  
Gary shuddered visibly at the sarcastic comment. "You ever been snake-bit, Buddy?" he asked as he threw his suitcase on the bed. He continued as the young songwriter shook his head. "Well, I have. It's an experience I'd rather not repeat, if you don't mind. Let's just make the best of this, guys, and hope some of those conventioneers decide to leave early."  
  
Clay plopped flat on his back on the bed, hands tucked behind his head as he stared up at his cousin. "I've been bit by a rattler or two," he said with a shrug. "Made me sick as a dog, but it was no big deal."  
  
"Then you were lucky," Gary murmured as he opened his bag. He busied himself laying out a Chicago Bulls t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, his usual sleeping attire.  
  
Something in the tone of his voice alerted the twins. They exchanged glances, wondering at the story behind his brief statement. "Wanna talk about it?" Buddy suggested, leaning back in one of the straight-back chairs and propping his booted feet on the bed.  
  
Gary just shook his head as he put his nightclothes on a hanger. "N-not much to tell," he shrugged, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his tone neutral. He winced inwardly at the faint tremor he'd heard in his own voice. "The antivenin didn't work. I almost died."  
  
Clay propped himself up on his elbows as Buddy's heels hit the floor with a thud. The twins studied their cousin for a moment before deciding he was being deadly serious. They were beginning to realize that, for all the protests to the contrary, there was something truly exceptional about this branch of their long-lost family.  
  
***************  
  
After a quick phone call to assure his parents that they had arrived safely, the trio piled back into the rented car and headed back into town. They had decided to have a hot lunch at one of the casinos and do a little gambling then take a little 'walking tour' of the infamous 'Strip.' In order not to attract attention the twins wore their hats pulled low, to half-conceal their faces. Gary preferred not to wear a hat at all.  
  
Buddy and Clay won more than they lost at the craps and blackjack tables, but Gary cleaned up at the roulette wheel. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of what numbers or colors were due to payoff next. In spite of keeping his wagers small, and never staying at one table more than a few turns, Gary had soon won over a hundred thousand dollars! Nervous at all the attention he was attracting, Gary cashed in his chips, requesting that most of the money be wired to his bank in Chicago and the remainder issued in traveler's checks. These he divided equally with the twins before heading out for their next destination.  
  
At Caesar's Palace they were first startled, then amused by the animatronics as the 'statues' went through their routine. The trio spent another couple of hours in the casino, where Buddy and Clay drew strange looks at the poker tables while Gary drifted off to stand at the craps tables. He never laid hands on the dice, so no one could accuse him of cheating, but he once more came away with a hefty sum. What rattled Gary the most about his windfall was that he had been playing to lose!  
  
"You have got to be the luckiest man alive!" Buddy exclaimed with an appreciative whistle. Gary had just handed them another stack of traveler's checks.   
  
"Naw," Clay drawled as he scrawled his name on each of the checks he had been given. "This is just payback for all the hell he went through last month. It won't last."  
  
"I hope not," Gary murmured as he signed his own stack. "People are starting to notice. See those two guys over by the slots? They've been watching me for the last hour. And I don't think they work for the casino."  
  
Clay glanced in the direction Gary indicated without lifting his head. The two men were dressed in cheap suits and were trying, unsuccessfully, to act disinterested in the trio. Both of them had 'thug' written all over them. They were tall and brawny with faces that had taken more than a few punches. One was slightly heavier than the other and had long, dark blonde hair. The other had dark reddish hair and a tiny glint of gold on his left ear. Something about them tugged at his memory, but he couldn't quite place the pair.  
  
"Looks like trouble," Clay murmured softly. "Are they why yo're goin' with the traveler's checks instead of cash?"  
  
"Partly," Gary responded in an equally low voice. "It just seemed safer. I don't think we have anything to worry about 'til it gets dark. As long as we stay out in the open, anyway. I'd feel a lot better if most of these were locked away, though."  
  
"We're about a mile from the Excalibur," Buddy mused. "We could walk or go over to Bally's and take the monorail. Maybe they'll put these in their safe for us."  
  
"I hope so," Clay grumbled. "I wouldn't trust Casa Diablo with a handful of pesos."  
  
***************  
  
The Excalibur was more than happy to accommodate the three men. The stack of traveler's checks were soon locked away, and Buddy was handed a message that had arrived only moments before. Gary and his cousins retreated to the bar for a drink and to peruse the note.  
  
"It's from Dusty," Buddy told them with a grin. "He wants to know if we want to do a guest shot in his benefit concert. You, 'specially, Gary. He wants you to sing 'Pistol Packin' Angel.' Seems like he's gotten a lotta requests for that one."  
  
"No, thank you," Gary replied with a shudder. "That once was more than enough. I'd think he'd want to me to steer clear of his concerts after the last two got shot up."  
  
"Oh, I dunno," Clay drawled, returning his brother's smile. "It'll help keep me in shape for the rodeo. All that runnin' around 'n' such. Then ya'll could help out at the rodeo, too. You could be clowns and keep the bulls distracted."  
  
"I thought you guys wanted to keep me out of the hospital," Gary snorted with a rueful grin of his own. "Sounds like fun, but I'll stick to the sidelines, thank you."  
  
"What?" Buddy chuckled. "You don't wanna experience the thrill and adventure of bein' in the ring with almost two thousand pounds of grit, gristle, and pure meanness? I'm surprised at you, cuz! I thought you had more sand than that!"  
  
"Oh, I've got plenty of 'sand,' Buddy," Gary replied. "It's just not all between my ears. I still have a little room left up there for brains. And my brain tells me that I want a good strong fence between me and those horns."  
  
Clay leaned back in his chair with a lazy grin. He was glad that Gary was relaxed enough to joke about the hospital. His cousin had been jumpy ever since he had noticed the two men at Caesar's Palace. Maybe the beer was loosening him up a little. Studying the other man over the rim of his glass, he could see that the tension lines on Gary's brow and around his eyes had eased just a little. Maybe this trip would do him some good after all.  
  
"The day's still young," the cowboy observed. "Plenty o' time to take in a few sights. I'd kinda like to stop by and see those big cats at the Mirage. I didn't get a chance the last time I was here."  
  
The idea appealed to Buddy and Gary as well. Soon they were back on the monorail, heading back to Bally's, which was just a quarter of a mile from the Mirage. A quick ride on the tram and they were soon standing practically nose-to-nose with a magnificent white tiger. They spent the rest of the afternoon at the various animal enclosures, where Gary got to 'play ball' with the dolphins, and took in the magic show that evening. Buddy and Clay insisted on doing a 'little more gambling,' which kept them busy until after midnight. Wary of attracting attention if he should have another 'winning streak,' Gary stuck to the slot machines with the lowest payoffs. He only won a few hundred dollars.  
  
Occasionally, Gary would look up from his mindless activity to find the same two men trying to act as if they weren't watching his every move. He tried to ignore them, but the prickly feeling at the back of his neck was getting on his nerves. Distracted, he moved down the line of slots, hoping to get out of their line of sight long enough to elude them. Without looking, he began to feed quarters into a larger machine at the end of the row. After each coin he tried to pull down on the handle, only to find it would not move. Gary figured he must have hit on one that was broken. Still, he tried one more coin.   
  
Later, he would blame it on being distracted by his two watchers. If Gary had known which machine he was pumping quarters into, he would have stopped and let the next person have a go at the jackpot. He wasn't even looking as the lever finally came down. His attention divided between the machine and his audience of two, Gary almost had a heart attack when the machine gave out with a strident alarm accompanied by flashing lights and a siren! Shaking, he stumbled back a couple of paces as coins started pouring out of the machine in a veritable avalanche! From out of nowhere, it seemed, the manager appeared, taking his hand in a firm grasp.   
  
"Congratulations, sir," the man was saying to his stunned patron. "You've just won our $500,000 jackpot!"  
  
"Hunh?" Gary squeaked. "F-f-five hu-hundred . . .?"  
  
"Thousand," the manager finished for him.   
  
"Ho-boy," Gary mumbled, grasping the manager's hand a little tighter as he felt his knees start to give. He suddenly found himself the focus of every eye in the place as people crowded in to pat him on the back, congratulate him, and scoop up a bucket or two of quarters. Afterwards, Gary couldn't say how he got into the chair or what anyone said. He just stared wide-eyed at the check someone had pressed into his hand and wondered, not for the first time, how his life had gotten so out of control.  
  
**********************  
  
"Man! I can not believe yo're luck, cuz!" Buddy exclaimed as he and Clay stared at the check. "Did you even know you were on the Super Jackpot?"  
  
"No, of course I didn't," Gary grumbled, trying not to look over his shoulder. Even though he couldn't see them, he could still feel two pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head. "If I'd known, I'd 've run the other way. I don't need any of this! I don't need, or want, the attention!"   
  
Clay shook his head with a rueful grin. "Yo're not very good at avoidin' it, Gary," he remarked. "So what're you gonna do with it? Play the stock market?"  
  
"Not on your life," the young barkeep replied acidly. "It's going by certified mail to Chicago and the foundation account. I've got no other use for this much money. This doesn't make any sense," he protested. "I've never been this lucky before." 'Not without help,' he added to himself. But he hadn't seen the paper or the cat since they had landed.  
  
"Well," Buddy drawled, tipping his hat up slightly, "you've certainly made up for lost time. What with this and all the money you've raked in at the other casinos, you've won almost three quarters of a million. That'll sure do a lot of good for somebody!"  
  
"The quicker it's out of my hands, the better," Gary grumbled. "I swear, so long as I'm in this town, I'm not touching another machine, table, or chip. Nothing that has anything to do with gambling. I-I just don't understand what's going on here."  
  
"Like I said," Clay remarked with a lazy grin. "It's just the good Lord rewarding you for all the good yo're doin'. Goin' around, savin' lives, helpin' people. Getting' all shot up and beat up and such. Just ride with it, pal, and make the best of it. Think of how much good you can do with all that money."  
  
"Or how much fun we can have," Buddy remarked with a mischievous grin. "Look, we've got all the money we need, so let's just get our sorry butts back over to the Excalibur, put this in the safe, and head off to bed. I don't know about you two, but three in the morning is pushin' the limit just a tad, even for me."  
  
Thus it was agreed. As soon as the check was tucked away in the Excalibur's safe, the trio loaded themselves back on the monorail and headed back for the area they had last seen their rented car. Four o'clock found them back at the Casa Diablo and flipping a coin to see who got to sleep on the outside edge of the king-sized bed, and who got stuck in the middle.  
  
"Now we know my luck only extends to the gaming tables," Gary sighed as he settled in between the twins. "Just don't both of you jab me at the same time. My ribs are still a little sore."  
  
"No promises," Buddy mumbled sleepily. Soon, he and his twin were slumbering peacefully.  
  
"G'night, guys," Gary murmured as he, too, slid into the arms of Morpheus.  
  
**************  
  
Gary was awoken a short time later by an arm plopping across his chest. A second later, a hand smacked him in the face from the other side. Annoyed, Gary pushed both extremities away from him only to have Buddy mumble something in his sleep and roll over on top of him. Gary was trying to turn him back over when Clay did the same thing from the opposite side! Tired, and more than a little ticked off, Gary shoved both men over at once. They both grumbled incoherently and rolled onto their sides, each facing away from him. Satisfied, Gary settled back to get some much needed rest.   
  
Whap!   
  
Gary grumbled something his mother would've been shocked to hear as he pushed Buddy's arm from over his face. This was not going to work. He had to get some rest somehow, but not with these two pounding away at him! With a weary sigh he scrambled over Buddy, pushing the songwriter toward his brother. When he finally had room enough, Gary settled in and rolled up on his side. Maybe now . . .   
  
Ka-thump!  
  
With a loud grunt, Gary hit the floor. Buddy had rolled back over, shoving him completely off the bed! Muttering things under his breath that would've shocked both of his parents, Gary snatched one of the pillows and the top cover from the bed. Folding the comforter into a thick pad, he made himself a pallet on the floor. It wasn't the best bed he'd ever slept in, but at least it was quiet.  
  
At which point a loud stentorian rumble issued from identical sources. With a muffled whimper, Gary pressed the pillow over his head and prayed to be struck stone deaf for just one blessed hour!  
  
************************  
  
Gary sat in the back seat of the rented SUV as they drove back toward the Strip. Clay and Buddy were talking animatedly in the front, energized after a good night's, and half a day's, rest. The twins intended to check out the situations with the benefit and the rodeo.  
  
"You'll love it, Gary," Clay told his silent cousin. "The action, the cheering of the crowds, the thrill of having all that raw power between yo're legs and knowing . . ."  
  
"That you're about to get turned into a greasy spot on the arena floor," Gary finished in a grumpy voice. "No, thank you. Besides, I still need to see a guy about some two hundred year old single malt Scotch." He scrubbed both hands over his face, trying to wake up. He had tried, really tried, to get to sleep before the sun came up. The twins had snored so loudly, Gary had instead spent half the morning answering complaints from the neighbors. "Just drop me off near Harrah's and I'll walk from there. We can meet at, um, the Barbary Coast for supper."  
  
"Sure thing, cuz," Buddy nodded. "Around eight?" He took Gary's monosyllabic grunt for a 'yes.' "You sound tired. Didn't you get any sleep last night?" he asked with concern.  
  
"No," Gary grumbled. "I didn't."  
  
"More nightmares?" Clay asked, a note of worry in his voice.  
  
"Not any worth mentioning," Gary sighed. "Just couldn't get to sleep." He wasn't going to tell them why he couldn't sleep. It would just be for a couple of nights . . . he hoped. The paper had given him any number of sleepless nights. He could weather a few more. That didn't mean he had to like it.  
  
*****************  
  
"It's a deal then," the wine merchant nodded as he counted up the total. "Six cases of the single malt, twelve of the dark Jamaican, fourteen of the framboise, sixteen of the dark lager, and sixteen of the Irish stout. Anything else?"  
  
"The blackberry brandy. Oh! And how about a couple of cases of that '56 Bordeaux?" Gary asked. "The 1856, not the 1956."  
  
"Excellent choice," the dealer smiled. He turned to his calculator and added up the prices, finally naming a sum that Gary found agreeable. "Will that be cash on delivery?" he asked.  
  
"No," Gary replied, pulling out a roll of cash. "I can pay now. My 'luck' has been pretty good, I guess. How soon can you deliver?"  
  
"The shipment can go out first thing in the morning," was the welcome response. "It should be in Chicago by the day after."  
  
"Grreatt," Gary replied, failing to stifle a cavernous yawn. "Um, sorry," he murmured. "Long night."  
  
"I can see that," the merchant smiled. "If I were you, I'd skip the casinos tonight and get a few hours sleep."  
  
"If only it was that easy," Gary murmured too low for the dealer to hear. Out loud, he said, "Sounds like a good idea." Rubbing a hand over his face with a weary sigh, he thanked the merchant and made his way out the door, wishing him a good evening.   
  
Outside, the day was quietly slipping into night. Looking at his watch, Gary saw he had a couple of hours before he was to meet the twins for supper. He could take in a show or go back to the Mirage. The best part of the previous day had been the dolphins. What he really wanted was to find someplace where he could just curl up and go to sleep.  
  
Gary took his time, strolling slowly toward the Strip and the Barbary Coast. The evening air felt cool and relaxing. The sunset, as he turned onto Flamingo Road, was spectacular. The streets weren't as crowded as he had been led to believe they would be, although the lights were every bit as bright as they had been the night before. Most of the hustle and bustle, he imagined, was inside the casinos and resorts. Even his two persistent watchers had yet to make their appearance. By staying out in the open, Gary hoped to avoid the possibility of being dragged into a dark alley and robbed.  
  
With that in mind, Gary wasn't expecting trouble, in the form of a burly cop, to pull up on the curb and unceremoniously slam him up against a police squad car! "Hey!" he cried angrily. "What's the . . .?"  
  
"You have the right to remain silent," the big cop recited as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Gary's wrists. "And I suggest you use it, fella. Now get in the car."  
  
As soon as the steel rings closed around his wrists, Gary stiffened. His mind instantly flashed back to the last time he had felt the chill touch of metal on his skin. He broke out in a cold sweat as he relived that awful night. The night that Aristotle Savalas had broken into his loft and almost amputated his left hand. The night Savalas had accidentally killed himself . . . instead of Gary.  
  
"T-take these off, please," he murmured tensely.   
  
"What's that, boy?" the big cop asked in a menacing drawl. "Are you resisting arrest here?"  
  
"N-no," Gary stammered, trying to maintain control of his frayed nerves. "No, sir," he hurriedly added. "It's just . . . wh-what did I do? I just got into town yesterday, you see and I . . ."  
  
"Then you work fast, son," the other cop said with a condescending smile. "Six people saw you assault some fella in a bar over on Diablo a couple of hours ago."  
  
"A couple . . . I been haggling with a liquor dealer over on Winchester for the last three and a half hours," Gary told them, trying to keep the anger at the unjust treatment out of his voice. "There's no way I could've been . . . where is Diablo, any-umph!" A rough hand shoved him up against the squad car, knocking the breath out of him.  
  
"So you drove," the first cop snarled. "Now, get in the car."  
  
"S-sure," Gary sighed. "Whatever you say. Just . . . c-could you at least loosen these up a little? I can't . . . I can't . . . please?"  
  
For the first time the two cops noticed how pale their prisoner was, and that he seemed to be having trouble breathing. Taking him by the arms to ease him into the car, they could feel the tremors that rippled through his body. Once Gary was safely belted in and they were underway the cop riding 'shotgun' turned to look back at the prisoner.  
  
"This isn't the first time you've been shackled, is it?" he stated derisively. "You've been collared before. You got a record, boy?"  
  
"S-sorta," Gary murmured, unable to meet his eyes. "C-call Detective Armstrong, Chicago PD. H-he can . . . He can tell you wh-what . . .Will you be taking these off when you 'book' me?"   
  
"That's the usual procedure," the big cop confirmed. "Why?"  
  
"Then can you drive a little faster?" Gary pleaded. "Please? I just . . . I just want these cuffs off. Please?"  
  
Something in the young man's tone sent a chill through the tough street cop. He turned to his partner.  
  
"Drive faster, Will," he mumbled softly.  
  
"Huh? Whatever for, Lou?" Will asked. "We'll get there soon enough."  
  
"Trust me, Will," he replied in a near whisper. "We need to get there sooner. This guy is on the verge of a panic attack. Remember when we were stuck in that elevator? How that guy looked just before he started climbing the walls, pukin' and screaming blue murder? Well, he's got that same look. Only worse. We don't want that happening in our car. Drive . . . faster."  
  
**************  
  
"Now, sit here and be quiet," Lou growled as he roughly shoved Gary onto a low bench. "I'll be back to get your statement in a minute."  
  
"C-could you hurry, please?" Gary stammered. "You promised to . . . to get these off." He shook his shackled wrists for emphasis. His arms were beginning to ache from being cuffed behind his back for so long. The fact that the steel rings were just tight enough to restrict his circulation didn't help matters, either. Gary could feel his hands growing numb and his heart beating faster. In spite of his every effort, his breath was coming in shorter and faster gasps.   
  
Now that there was no danger of the prisoner creating a mess in his precious unit, the big cop was enjoying the younger man's discomfort. He took his time signing in, going to the bathroom, getting a fresh cup of coffee and chatting with a couple of fellow officers before returning to take charge of his prisoner.  
  
The cup of coffee slipped from his hand, spilling the hot liquid in a widening pool on the carpeted floor, as he stared in stunned disbelief at the sight that greeted him.   
  
Where he had left one suspect, he now had three. They were dressed differently, with two of them wearing black Stetson hats, but they all wore the same identical features. The two with hats were evidently acquainted with the other man, for they were talking to him in low, comforting tones. The third man, his prisoner, was so tense he could almost hear the thunder of the young man's heartbeat from where he stood.  
  
"Just calm down, cuz," one man was murmuring in conciliatory tones. "We'll get this whole mess straightened out in no time."  
  
"That's right, Gary," the other 'hat man' added. "I've been through this a time or two. We'll be back on the street in a few hours."  
  
"I know that!" Gary moaned. "This isn't my first time in jail, either. Th-they'll get the cuffs off soon, won't they? When they book us?"  
  
"They won't book us unless they can press charges," the second man told him with a shake of his head. "Just hang in there, pal. What's the deal with the cuffs, anyway? Does it have anything to do with the nightmares?"  
  
'Nightmares?' Lou wondered. 'This guy has nightmares about handcuffs?' He was keeping out of sight just around a corner of the hallway, listening. He told himself it was in hopes of overhearing an incriminating remark.  
  
"S-sorta," the one called Gary stammered in reply. "I-it's a long story. Do you think he'll be back soon? I just . . . just want these things off!" He leaned over until his head almost touched his knees then straightened back up, looking around anxiously. Rocking back and forth nervously, he seemed to be having trouble breathing. "I can't feel my hands," he murmured in a tight voice. "I can't feel my hands!"  
  
"Easy, cuz!" the one on Gary's right counseled. "Slow and easy. Deep breath in. That's it. Now, let it out. Again. Slow and easy. Good man! Listen, we ain't done nothin' wrong, and they'll know that soon enough. Just hang in there and we'll be out of here just as soon as we get this here mess sorted out."  
  
"R-right," Gary sighed, obviously trying to stay in control. "We haven't . . . haven't done anything. Th-they can't hold us . . . f-for something we didn't . . . didn't do. I'm okay."  
  
The one on the left looked behind Gary and hissed something under his breath. Looking up at the nervously sweating man, he snapped, "Damn it, Gary! Stop that! Yo're rubbin' all the hide off yo're wrists!"  
  
Lou decided it was time to rattle his prisoner some more. 'Have to teach these tourists to walk the line,' he thought maliciously. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" he drawled, strolling up to the three seated men. "Triplets? That oughta make a line-up fun." He grabbed his prisoner by the arm and hauled him roughly to his feet. "C'mon, son. Let's get this over with."  
  
"Easy on the arms!" Gary snapped, angered enough by the rough treatment to forget his anxiety for a moment. "I'd like to leave with everything I came in with," he added. He was dragged into the squad room and thrust into a straight-backed chair.  
  
Over the next hour, Gary was forced to go over his statement several times before the burly cop finally agreed to call the liquor merchant and confirm the time that he had been there. By which time he had grown increasingly pale, with fine droplets of sweat beading his forehead. At last, Lou had to admit he had the wrong man. Still, he took his time removing the cuffs from the young stranger. He barely had the restraints off before his prisoner snatched his arms around in front of himself. Lou hooked the cuffs onto his belt without looking at them.  
  
"Th-thank you," Gary murmured as he rubbed the circulation back into his hands with a painful grimace. His face had turned a strange, pasty shade. "Do . . . do you have a-a men's room close?" he asked. When Lou escorted him to the proper door, the younger man thanked him politely, saying he could take it from there. Lou waited to escort him back to the property desk when he was through. He waited . . . and waited. After several minutes it occurred to him to become worried that the young man had been in there for so long.   
  
"Have you seen our cousin, officer?"  
  
Lou turned around to see the two with the black hats eyeing him neutrally. He shrugged and nodded at the men's room door. They thanked him and went in, seeming to be in some kind of hurry. A moment later, one of them stuck his head back out, a look of anger mixed with alarm on his normally pleasant features.  
  
"Get a doctor in here!" he snapped. "Now! He's passed out and we cain't wake him up!"  
  
'Oh sh---!' Lou thought as he hurried to call the paramedics. 'I've gone and done it now!"  
  
******************  
  
Gary was first aware of the voices. They were muffled and hollow, as if coming from the bottom of a steel barrel that was miles away. A moment later, he realized that he was lying on a cold tile floor. The men's room. He had been in the men's room. At least he remembered that much.   
  
"C'mon, cuz!" a worried voice was saying. "You gotta wake up!" That had to be Buddy. He was the only one that called him 'cuz.'  
  
"These are some deep cuts on his wrists," a strange voice observed clinically. "He wasn't . . ."  
  
"Hell no!" a third voice snapped. "He tried to tell this yahoo the damned cuffs were too tight," he continued. "But 'John Law' here wouldn't listen!" That had to be Clay, but Gary couldn't ever remember hearing his cousin sounding this angry.  
  
Something stung his left wrist, eliciting a soft hiss, then a low groan from a throat that felt as raw as hamburger. It was some kind of liquid that burned and cooled at the same time. At almost the same instant as the pain hit, he noticed the foul taste in his mouth. A stale, cloying, bitter taste. He badly needed a gallon of mouthwash!  
  
"I think he's coming around," someone else was saying. "Mr. Hobson? Mr. Hobson! Can you hear me?"  
  
"Um," Gary replied with a slow nod. His voice sounded as dry as his throat felt. "Wha' h'p'n?"  
  
"You seem to've passed out," the voice told him. "Do you remember anything at all?"  
  
"Queasy," he murmured. "Had to . . . had to, um." He tried to wave a hand towards where he thought the toilet stall was, only to find that both were held fast. "C-couldn't quit . . . I was . . . was startin' t-to shake an' the room sorta . . . tilted."  
  
"What happened to your wrists?" the first stranger asked. He was busy wrapping something around the right one. "Did you do this?"  
  
Gary finally opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn't as the room started to gyrate. Squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing convulsively, he forced his rising gorge to behave itself. He didn't dare to be sick again. Not if he wanted out of this place. Trying again, he looked to where a man in a paramedic's uniform was still cleaning the cuts made by the steel cuffs.  
  
"S-sorta," he replied, letting his head sink back to the floor. "Tried to . . . to get 'em to loosen up. Too tight. C-couldn't feel my . . . my hands." Gary looked over to where his twin cousins were glaring daggers at the officer who had treated him so roughly. "Can we go now? Back to the hotel? Please? I just need a little sleep, is all."  
  
"You can sleep at the hospital," the first paramedic told him. "As soon as the doctor gets through checking you . . . Hold still! You wanna pass out again!"  
  
Gary was struggling to sit up against the two paramedics' restraining hands. "No!" he said as firmly as he could manage. "N-no hospital! Just . . . just let me go back to the hotel and sleep it off. I-I'll be okay."  
  
"Mister," the man on his right argued, "you just passed out after what looks to've been a severe bout of vomiting. Now it doesn't look like you hit your head, but we'd certainly advise you to let the ER Docs check you over. Your wrists may need stitches and we need to know what triggered the vomiting."  
  
"Flashbacks," Gary hurried to explain. He wanted to avoid another hospital stay if at all possible! "I, um, I was . . . a-attacked in my . . . my home a year ago last Halloween. Th-the guy used . . . used h-handcuffs to . . . to shackle me to . . . um, he put 'em on pretty tight and . . ." Gary hugged his left wrist up against his chest, rubbing the bandages that covered the new cuts . . . and the old scar. "He also . . . They, um, they said I was in surgery a-a long . . .a long time. Ever since I, um, I can't . . . Can I go now?"  
  
Buddy and Clay looked at their quiet cousin with a dawning sense of horror. If what he was saying sounded this bad, what about what he wasn't saying! Then to have such memories dragged back up by the unnecessary cruelty of one sadistic cop . . . The looks they turned on the hapless officer could have constituted a major source of 'global warming.'   
  
*****************  
  
Gary was finally able to convince everyone that he just needed to get one decent night's sleep and then he would be okay. Having retrieved their things from the property room, the three of them loaded themselves into a waiting cab, courtesy of the Las Vegas PD, and returned to where the twins had left their rented SUV. Half an hour later, they were preparing to turn in.   
  
To the twins' consternation, Gary insisted on remaking his pallet on the floor when they found that the hotel didn't have any cots to spare. Not that Gary could bring himself to trust any such device this place provided. With his luck, it would turn out to be one of those 'man-eating' deathtraps that collapsed if you sneezed twice.  
  
Worn past the point of exhaustion by the stress of the arrest and his subsequent collapse, Gary was asleep before his head hit the pillow.   
  
*****************  
  
Once again, Gary found himself running on cold, dark, snow-shrouded streets. Faceless, genderless creatures that could only vaguely be called human pointed clawed hands at his fleeing figure. 'Killer,' they whispered. 'Murderer! Who are you to judge who should live or die? What gives you the right?'  
  
"I don't!" Gary cried as he spun around to face his accusers. "I don't choose! I try to save as many as I can! But I'm only one man! I'm not God!"  
  
"You're not much of a man, either," one voice said derisively, making itself heard above the others. "You are so pathetic, Hobson!"  
  
Gary was once again in that damned wheelchair, his left arm stretched painfully behind him. This time his right was similarly shackled. Savalas stood before him, a contemptuous sneer on his aquiline features. Blood spurted from a thumb-sized hole in his chest in time with the beating of his heart. A thin stream of crimson drooled from the left corner of his mouth, spraying droplets in Gary's face as he spoke.  
  
"Look at you!" he snorted derisively. "Passing out just because some beat cop slapped some steel on your wrists!"  
  
"Go away, Savalas!" Gary snapped at the apparition. "You're dead! You died by your own hand! You can't hurt anyone anymore!"  
  
"Wrong!" the specter laughed explosively. "I can hurt you! I can seek revenge on the man who killed me!"  
  
"I didn't kill you!" Gary yelled, his voice cracking. "I didn't! You know I didn't! It was your gun! Your hand was on the trigger. You were there to kill me!"  
  
Gary cried out again as he suddenly found himself on the floor. His right arm was numb, useless. His left was still chained to the back of the frame of the wheelchair. His legs had no feeling at all. Dazed he looked up to see his tormentor bringing the butt of his gun down on the steel bracelet . . .   
  
*************  
  
Gary sat straight up with a strangled cry! Heart pounding like a jackhammer, he looked around the darkened room. For once he was relieved to find himself on the floor of a seedy hotel room. Hugging his left wrist against his chest he tried to slow the racing of his heart. 'Just a dream,' he told himself. 'It was only a dream.'  
  
Buddy rolled onto his back, giving vent to a loud, stentorian rumble. A few seconds later, Clay joined him in a harmonious cacophony that could have spared the Biblical Joshua a lot of trouble. Their snoring alone could've brought down the walls of Jericho! After two attempts to quiet the pair, Gary gave it up as a lost cause. Gathering up his bedclothes, he slipped on a pair of loafers and silently eased out the door.  
  
***************  
  
Buddy was the first to awaken the next morning. Stretching lazily, he slouched his way to the bathroom grabbing a set of clothes as he passed the rack. An hour later, having showered, shaved and dressed; he surrendered the facilities to Clay. Going around to the far side of the bed, he was trying to figure a gentle way to awaken his cousin. After the events of the previous day, Gary didn't need any more shocks. This trip was supposed to help him relax!  
  
The young songwriter took one look at the empty floor and yelled for Clay. His twin dashed from the bathroom, still clad in t-shirt and boxers, to see what was wrong. When he saw the spot that should have been occupied by the sleeping form of their cousin, he let out a string of invective that would have made a Marine drill instructor blush with shame to be so outdone.  
  
"What was he thinkin'?" Clay grumbled, scrambling into his clothes. "Sneakin' out like that in the middle of the night! He's supposed to be restin'! Damn! I hope he didn't go an get hisself snake bit again!"  
  
"Gary ain't stupid, Clay," Buddy muttered half under his breath. "He knows what's out there as well as we do. He was probably just havin' trouble sleepin' an' took a walk or somethin'. He'll be okay. You'll see."  
  
"He'd better be or cousin Lois'll kill us deader'n ary doorknob you can name," Clay replied with a shudder. "We was supposed to be lookin' after him, not letting' 'im get hisself lost, or poisoned, or . . . or hurt."  
  
Twenty minutes later, the twins had searched every inch of the hotel complex and grounds with no success. Gary was nowhere to be found. They finally decided to load into the SUV and start combing the surrounding desert.   
  
Clay jumped behind the wheel and thrust the key into the ignition as Buddy clambered into the passenger seat. Both men froze instantly. From somewhere in the back they could hear a low, soft, rhythmic rumbling noise. After exchanging a startled look, both men scrambled from their seats and ran around to the back of the vehicle. Clay quickly unlocked the hatch and swung it up and out of the way.  
  
Both men looked down in astonishment, and relief, to see cousin Gary curled up in the luggage space, both arms wrapped around his pillow and snoring softly.  
  
******************  
  
"You scared the livin' Hell outta both of us, Gary," Buddy gently scolded his cousin. "What were you doin' sleepin' in the car?"  
  
"It was quiet?" Gary replied, leaning back against the fender with a sleepy yawn. "Sorry, but you guys snore louder than I do, and that's no small accomplishment. What with that and the nightmares . . . I just needed to get off by myself. I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble, but I really needed the rest."  
  
The twins had let Gary sleep where he was until Clay had showered, shaved and dressed. Then they had awakened the peacefully sleeping man as gently as possible. Although Buddy had seriously considered a blast from the car horn to be a desirable method Clay had reminded him that they were supposed to be helping Gary relax, not give him a heart attack. Then Clay had gone off to answer the phone, leaving the other two to sort things out.  
  
Buddy had to admit that Gary did look a little more rested than he had the previous morning. Especially considering the state he had been in when they had left the police station. His cousin had still been pale and shaking when they'd retrieved the car from the public lot. By the time they had returned to the motel, it was all Gary could do to keep his eyes open. Still, he had insisted on fixing a place on the floor rather than share the crowded bed. He had been asleep long before the twins had settled down.  
  
"I'm sorry," Gary repeated, sounding genuinely contrite. "I really didn't mean to scare you guys, but I couldn't see waking you up to tell you what I was doing."  
  
"That's okay, cuz," Buddy sighed, clapping a hand to Gary's shoulder and giving it a rough shake. "It got our blood pumpin' for sure. I don't think I've ever been so wide-awake this early before. Even when I was a 'roadie' for Dusty. C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up and dressed, then we can go check out the rodeo setup. They start the bull riding today. We can get you behind the scenes so you can see it close up."  
  
"Just not too close," Gary pleaded, sliding out of the back of the SUV. "I'm still not crazy enough to wanna ride one of those monsters."  
  
They met Clay coming out of the room with a big smile on his face. "That was the Excalibur," he told them. "They've got a penthouse suite with our name on it. It's got two bedrooms, a dinin' area and a balcony. Seems they heard about yo're winnin' streak, Gary. They usually only roll out a welcome like that for 'high rollers' 'n' such. Go on, pal. Buddy and I can pack up while you get ready."  
  
"Thanks, guys," Gary nodded, still trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes. "I won't be long. Can we stop for coffee on the way? And breakfast? For some reason, I'm starved."  
  
"No wonder," Clay whispered to his twin as Gary disappeared into the bathroom. "Sick as he was last night, I doubt he kept down enough to matter. Think he'll be alright?"  
  
"Gary's tougher than he acts sometimes," Buddy murmured as he threw one of Gary's bags on the bed. "He doesn't talk about what he does when he's not at the bar, but I don't think he's goofin' off. Saved yo're bacon, from what you said. I'd still like to know how come he was there in the first place."  
  
"Me too," Clay nodded. He was taking their clothes off the hangers and folding them carefully. "There's some other things I've been wantin' to ask 'im. Like how come he wanted that cop, Tate, to hide in the bathroom that first night he was in the hospital. And why was that Tony fella messin' with his head instead of one of us? We look just like three peas from the same pod. Why pick on him?"  
  
Buddy gave a visible shudder as he lay the folded clothing into the first case. "I'd just as soon not have an answer to that one, brother," he remarked. "Gary can keep his ghosts, thank you very much."  
  
"Why, Buddy!" Clay responded in mock astonishment. "You afraid of a li'l ol' spook? I'm surprised at you, brother! What would yo're mama say?"  
  
"That I was finally showin' some sense," the young songwriter shot back with an easy grin. "What about you? Would you want some restless spirit crawlin' around in yo're body an' makin' you do things?"  
  
"No way in Hell," Clay hurried to say as he felt a chill run up and down his spine. "I'd druther take on the meanest bull on the circuit."  
  
Half an hour later, Gary was sitting quietly on the bed while Clay bandaged his wrists. The cowboy had seen some ugly wounds in his time, and these weren't pretty. The skin of Gary's wrists had been peeled off almost to the muscle fascia in a strip about half an inch wide that completely encircled them. Clay hated to think of his cousin's state of mind to have done this to himself without even being aware of it!  
  
"You really didn't feel this?" Clay asked incredulously as he taped down the end of the gauze.  
  
"Not 'til the water hit it," Gary admitted ruefully. "Good thing Mom's back in Chicago. I don't think she'd 've approved of my language." He let Clay help him finish getting dressed. The cowboy was very gentle as he buttoned down the cuffs of the blue plaid shirt. His watch went on last, fastened over the bandages. His wrists still throbbed, but at least he wasn't in the screaming agony he had been in just moments before. When the hot water from the shower had soaked through the old bandages the resulting pain had knocked him to his knees! Unable to even cry out or reach up to shut off the water, Gary had been on the verge of passing out when the twins had come in to check on him. It had embarrassed him to no end to have to let them dry him off and dress him, but he had been unable to raise his arms at all. It wasn't until Clay had liberally applied the painkilling ointment the paramedics had given him that he was even able to get his lungs to work properly.   
  
Clay straightened Gary's collar, then helped him into his sheepskin jacket. "Next time," he murmured, "let's cover those bandages with some plastic wrap or somethin'. This makes three times in less than twelve hours that you've scared the crap out of us."  
  
"Sorry," Gary murmured, sounding genuinely contrite. "I honestly didn't know how bad it was. I thought it was just a few cuts and scrapes."  
  
"Bags are loaded," Buddy said as he poked his head through the door. He looked Gary over carefully. "Still lookin' a little pale, cuz. Y'okay?"  
  
"I'm fine, guys," Gary assured them. "Honestly. Now, can we get out of here? I really don't like this place."  
  
**************  
  
The Excalibur had people take their bags up to their suite, practically rolling out the 'red carpet' for the trio. Room Service quickly delivered a huge breakfast, which the three men devoured as if they had not eaten in weeks. Clay and Buddy insisted that they eat on the balcony. Gary took one look at the magnificent view and took his meal to the table just inside the glass doors.   
  
"What's the matter, cuz?" Buddy asked, grinning at his cousin's discomfort. "Don't you like this great view? You kin see most of the strip from here!"  
  
"You go ahead and enjoy the view," Gary told him. "I like it just fine where I'm at. These blueberry pancakes are great. So, what time do we need to be at the rodeo?"  
  
"We got a coupla hours," Clay told him. "I thought we could go early, though, an' look around some. You ever been to a rodeo, Gary?"  
  
"Nope," Gary replied with a shake of his head. "I've seen 'em on TV, but never up close. Are you really gonna ride one of those beasts?"  
  
"Shore am," the cowboy nodded. "Not much point in me bein' there if I don't. I'll be doin' some bronc ridin', too, afore the day's out. You two do much ridin'?"  
  
"Not like you do," Buddy replied, "but you can't hardly grow up in Texas without learnin' t'ride."  
  
"I've ridden a little," Gary shrugged. "Nothing fancy." His mind flashed back to a wild ride he had to make to save the love-struck librarian, Abby, from being skewered by a knife juggler. He had bent down and scooped her out of danger just in the nick of time.   
  
"What you grinning' about, cuz?" Buddy asked around a mouthful of toast.  
  
"Nothing," Gary hastened to say. "Nothing at all."  
  
After they had finished breakfast, Clay insisted on checking Gary's bandages one more time before they headed for the arena, then helped him slip into a worn denim jacket. He also suggested that his cousin swap his Reeboks for a pair of Western boots.  
  
"We ain't zactly gonna be strollin' down 'Primrose Lane,'" Clay warned the other two. "So don't wear anything you cain't toss in the washer, scrub off, or throw away." An hour later, he stood back and looked the other two up and down. Buddy looked the part of a working cowboy in one of Clay's faded flannel shirts, jeans, and an old pair of boots left over from his 'roadie' days. Gary, however, still didn't quite look the part. He had the jeans, the faded shirt covered by the denim jacket, the boots . . . What was missing? "A hat!" Clay exclaimed, glancing from Gary's bare head to Buddy's black Stetson and back. "You need decent head gear!" He took his own Stetson off and plopped it onto his cousin's head. Pulling the hat half over Gary's face, he gave the feather a little flick and stepped back to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like a cowboy," he laughed.   
  
Gary tilted his head back, cocking it from side to side so that he could peer out from under the wide brim. With a grin, he pushed the hat back until it sat properly on his head. "Cute," he chuckled. "Like we don't look enough alike as it is. Just don't expect me to hop on some wild animal in your place."  
  
Clay grinned back at his cousin as he settled the brown Stetson he had purchased the night before onto his own head. "Let's hope nobody mistakes you for me then," he replied with a matching grin. "The first time you get on a bull could be yo're last."  
  
**************  
  
The first thing Gary noticed was the smell. No matter how much a person might love the rodeo, the thrills, or the animals, there was no escaping the unique aroma that arose from so many animals having to share a relatively small, enclosed space. Soon, however, he became caught up in the almost carnival-like atmosphere of a Vegas rodeo.   
  
Clay quickly led them past the food vendors and game stalls, taking them into the area where the horses and bulls were kept. This was the 'heart' of the rodeo. He showed them the bull he had drawn to ride that afternoon. It was a huge Brahma, tan with dark brown markings. He looked to be a placid beast until one of the handlers got too close. The bull kicked out at the hapless man, just missing him and splintering a thick wooden board! The handler wasted no time scrambling out of the pen.   
  
"You're gonna ride that monster?" Gary asked his cousin in disbelief. "Are you nuts?"  
  
"Yes, and probably," Clay answered with a grin. "I just have to stay on for eight seconds. Same goes for the bronc I'll be ridin'. We'll have the calf ropin' first, though. There's also the steer wrestling, team roping and bareback riding. Then we'll be holdin' the amateur events" He glanced at his watch. "I've gotta go talk with some people," he told them. "Why don't ya'll wander around a bit while I get this took care of? We can meet back by the horse pens in an hour?"   
  
Buddy and Gary nodded their agreement and the three men went their separate ways. Gary spent a little time at the game booths where he found that his injured wrists did not improve his pitching skills. A little frustrated, he took a meandering path back to the horse pens.   
  
It was during this time that he learned a few things about his cousin the rodeo star. Several times he was greeted, hugged, and even kissed by beautiful young women who thought he was Clay. Animal handlers and other rodeo participants waved and shouted 'Howdy' to him. At first, Gary tried to correct their mistake, only to have his protests passed off as Clay 'horsin' around.' After about half an hour or so Gary gave it up as a lost cause. Whenever someone would call out his cousin's name, he would just smile, nod, and tap his watch as if to say he had to be somewhere in a hurry. For the most part it seemed to work.  
  
"Clay! Wait up!"  
  
Looking around, still expecting to see one of his cousins close by, Gary was surprised when a slender, gorgeous blonde threw her arms around him! Before he could correct her mistake, he found himself involved in a deep, probing kiss! Startled, Gary's eyes darted around to see if one of the others was hanging back and enjoying the joke. When he didn't see anyone else, he realized she must have mistaken him for the wrangler. He tried to push her away only to find that his throbbing wrists wouldn't allow enough force to separate them. Then he tried to speak up through their 'lip lock,' but could only manage muffled grumbling noises. This girl could kiss!   
  
Finally, when Gary could feel his knees start to buckle from lack of air, she stepped back. Dazed from the ferocity of her kiss, he was unprepared for the backhand she then landed across his mouth!   
  
"Ow!" he exclaimed, his left hand automatically coming up to rub the stinging imprint of her hand. "What was that for?"  
  
"That's for standin' me up in Laramie last month!" she snapped. She then turned on her heel and stormed off, leaving Gary even more confused than he had been when she had kissed him.  
  
"You son of a -----!"  
  
Gary barely had time to duck as a meaty fist almost knocked the hat from his head! 'What the heck is going on here?' he wondered. "Do . . . do I know you?" he asked the enraged cowboy as he quickly dodged another blow.  
  
"You sure seemed to know my girl!" the other man snapped. "Now stand still and fight like a man, you weasel!"  
  
"Look, I think you've got the wrong guy!" Gary tried to reason with his assailant. He hopped back to avoid another swing by those huge fists, slamming up against a wall as he did so. "I never saw her before in my life!"  
  
"After that kiss, you expect me to believe that?" The big man reared back his fist in readiness for a blow that would have knocked Gary into the neighboring county . . . if it had landed.   
  
Gary dropped to the ground at the last second and rolled out of the giant's path. That meaty fist hit the thick boards with a thud! With a cry that was equal parts pain and rage, the brawny wrangler clutched his hand to his chest and slumped against the wall. Gary knelt beside him, intending to see if he had broken anything.   
  
Before he could open his mouth to ask how bad the other man was hurt, the blonde woman was back and screaming profanities at Gary. She was also lashing out at him with a riding crop! He ducked and dodged more blows . . . until one caught him across the left wrist. Agony shot up Gary's arm as his knees buckled A wave of dizziness hit him as a cold sweat broke out over every inch of his body. A band of pressure wrapped his lower ribs, making it hard to breathe! All the while, the woman was raining more stinging blows across his back and shoulders!  
  
"You . . . you've got the wrong guy!" he was finally able to gasp. "N-not . . . not C-Clay."  
  
"Yeah, right!" she snapped, bringing the short whip down across his shoulders once more. "Is that why you attacked my Wendell? I thought you were friends!"  
  
Angered and frustrated, Gary shot his right hand up, catching the quirt across his palm. Pain shot up his arm from the impact, but he hung on grimly, wrenching the weapon from her grasp. He then straightened up and sent the bludgeon flying as far as he could throw it.   
  
"Now will you please back off!" Gary grated out between clenched teeth. He hugged his throbbing wrists to his chest and slid down the wall until he was sitting next to the man who had attacked him. Gary looked beside him at the other guy, who was still rubbing his hand and grimacing.  
  
"Wendell?" he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up in amusement.  
  
"Yeah. What of it?" the big man grumbled. He shot Gary a venomous look. "You think it's funny?"  
  
"N-no," Gary replied with a shake of his head, followed by a painful grimace. "Not much funny about this at all."  
  
For the first time, the blonde noticed the bandages on Gary's wrists; and the fresh blood soaking through the gauze wrapping on the left one. "Oh, my God!" she whispered. "Clay, I'm so sorry! When everyone told me about you pretendin' to be somebody else, I thought that Wendell and I could . . . then I thought you'd . . . now you're both hurt and it's all my fault . . . I'm so sorry!"  
  
"I'm okay, Luann," Wendell murmured, massaging his hand. "I pulled my punch enough I just bruised my knuckles. Just stings a little, now. How 'bout you, Clay?"  
  
"I'll be . . . okay," Gary replied with a painful grunt. "Seriously, though, I'm not Clay. I'm . . . I'm his cousin . . . from Chicago. Gary Hobson. If you look in my wallet, you'll see . . . my driver's license." He tried to reach inside his hip pocket to pull out his ID, only to find that both hands were now too sore to grasp the leather folder. He gave the girl a painful, pleading look.  
  
Luann gingerly reached into the pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening it up, her face blanched, then colored as she realized that Gary had been telling the truth.   
  
"Wh-where do you know Clay from?" Gary asked before she could think of another apology.  
  
"We met him down in Amarillo a couple of years ago," Wendell replied. "I was a deputy sheriff and he was bustin' heads in a bar fight. You have to hand it to 'im," he chuckled. "That boy can give as good as he gets. Anyway, he was about to land one on me when he spotted the badge. Threw his hands up and came along as quiet as you please. We got to talkin' while I was bookin' 'im, and as soon as he was released, I invited him home to dinner. We've been friends ever since."  
  
Gary made a face as he rolled his shoulders, trying to evaluate the damage. "This is how you treat friends?" he asked. "Remind me to stay on your good side." He tried to gather his feet under himself and stand up, with little success. When Luann, in an effort to help, grasped his right hand, he let out a muffled curse. Finally, with each of them taking him by an elbow, the couple was able to get him to his feet.   
  
"I think you need to go to the aid station," Wendell suggested.  
  
"So do I," Gary agreed with a grimace.  
  
*********************  
  
Wendell and Luann stayed with Gary until the medics had cleaned his wrists and wrapped them in fresh bandages. They had also sprayed them liberally with a topical painkiller. He had been amazed to notice that most of the swelling had subsided by the time they were done. Finally, Gary persuaded the couple that he would be fine and that there were no hard feelings.   
  
"Just be careful next time," he suggested. "Jokes like that can backfire."  
  
"So we noticed," Luann replied with an apologetic grin. "At least we know Clay has a twin out there, now," she added, "and that he's a real good sport."  
  
"And you're one hell of a kisser," Gary teased. Turning to Wendell, he added, "You're a lucky man."  
  
Putting an arm around his blushing wife, Wendell just smiled and said, "Don't I know it!" A few minutes later, they were lost in the pre-rodeo crowd.  
  
Glancing at his watch, Gary saw that he still had a few minutes before he was supposed to meet the twins. Feeling like he had been stomped by one of Clay's bulls, he headed for the arena.  
  
"Clay!"  
  
Gary looked around, thinking that the approaching men had seen his cousin coming up behind him. There was no one else around. Then he realized they had mistaken him for the cowboy! 'Oh no!' was his frantic thought. 'Not again!'  
  
"Sorry," he apologized. "You've got the wrong . . ."  
  
"No time to be foolin' around, Treyton," one of the men hastened to say. "We know all about yo're little joke. The promoters have some high-roller they're tryin' to impress. They want you on that bull now!"  
  
"B-bull?" Gary stammered. "Heh-heh, there's no way I'm getting on that monster." He started backing away, his hands raised in a 'warding off' gesture.  
  
Both men grabbed him by the arms and started dragging him forward, repeating that they had no time for any of his jokes. Gary dug in his heels, trying to slow his progress until his cousins could show up. The two men were used to handling opponents a lot more ornery than him and were having little trouble.  
  
"I tell you I'm not Clay!" Gary shouted in a near panic. "I've never been on a bull in my life! Don't . . . Don't you put me up there! Clay! Clay! C'mon Clay, Buddy! Tell these guys I'm not . . . Help!" The huge Brahma had been herded into a narrow, confining chute and a rope cinched just behind those powerful shoulders. The two men, with some help from the handlers, lifted Gary over the wall of the chute and deposited him on that broad back. Gary grabbed onto the railing on each side, hanging on for dear life. "Don't open that gate," he told them. "Don't you dare open that gate! Clay? B-Buddy! Help!"   
  
The bull, sensing his fear and agitated by all the yelling, began to kick out at the thick wooden boards. Which was all the encouragement Gary needed. He braced his feet on the rails and launched himself over the fence, hitting the ground at a dead run. The two strangers were quick to give pursuit. Gary was able to outrun them until he found himself trapped in a little cul-de-sac between two horse pens. He turned to retrace his steps, only to find his way blocked by the same two men.  
  
"I don't know what yo're problem is, Clay," the leader began.  
  
"That is my problem!" Gary tried again to reason with them. "I'm not Clay! N-now just back off! I'm not riding any bull!" He tried to run past them, but they quickly had him by the arms once more and were hauling him back to the bullpen.   
  
"I swear, Clay," the older of the two men grumbled, "if you weren't so dang good at this, I'd let you sit back there and rot. But these guys want to see a show and, by God, we're gonna give 'em one!"  
  
"Not with me, you won't!" Gary insisted. "I'm not getting on that beast! Let . . . me . . . go!" In spite of his best efforts, Gary found himself once more on one side of a wooden fence, face to face with three thousand pounds of pure meanness. "I-I'm not getting on that thing!" he vowed. "No way am I getting . . ." He was again lifted bodily and practically thrown on top of the restless animal. One of the handlers had one hand on the gate, looking to Gary for a signal. Gary was again hanging onto the rails as if his life depended on it. "Do not open that gate!" he grated out between clenched teeth. "CLAY! BUDDY! HEEELLP!"   
  
"Gary! What the hell?" The twins came running up, causing Gary's two assailants to do a double take. "Get him off of there, Lundy!" Clay shouted. "What in the livin' hell's got into you, puttin' an amateur up on a bull like Armageddon!"  
  
"Clay?" both men said at once.  
  
"We thought he . . . You two look . . . Oh, my Lord," the older man breathed. He turned and quickly helped Gary off the irritated bull. "I'm sorry, son," he told the trembling barkeep. "We honestly thought you wuz Clay Treyton. The three of you . . . My God!"  
  
"Even if it was me," Clay snapped, "do you think I'd be stupid enough to ride with both wrists bunged up like this?" He angrily held up Gary's right arm, turning back the sleeve to reveal the bandages.  
  
The two wranglers paled as they realized the depths of their mistake. "Oh, Lord," the man next to Lundy breathed. "We coulda . . . I'm so sorry, mister. We honestly thought . . ."  
  
"Th-that's . . . that's okay," Gary assured him as he stumbled over to a low bench. Shakily, he sank down on the wooden seat and put his head in his hands. That had been too close!  
  
"You gonna be okay, Gary?"   
  
Gary looked up to see concern written all over his cousins' faces. Slowly, he nodded his head and let it sink down to rest on the heels of his hands. "I-I'm fine . . . now," he stammered. He waved a hand towards the arena. "G-go on. Ride your bull. I'll be right here wh-when you get back. You too, Buddy. I know you want to watch. Just . . . just let me sit here a moment. Please?"  
  
"You sure, cuz?" Buddy asked. He, too, was reluctant to leave their cousin unattended. Trouble seemed to be able to find him at every turn!  
  
"I'm sure," Gary told them. "Now, go. I'll be fine."  
  
Buddy finally turned to follow Clay and the attendants, leaving Gary to the privacy he needed to get his shattered nerves under control. 'Why do these things keep happening to me?' he wondered. 'So many people wearing my face, and trouble has to dog my footsteps?'   
  
"Well, what have we here?" a deep voice growled. "Clay Treyton sittin' off to his lonesome, and no bodyguards to hold his hands."  
  
"I keep telling you," Gary sighed as he raised his head. "I'm not . . ." His words caught in his throat as he looked up to see the two men who had been shadowing him from casino to casino over the last couple of days. "I-I'm not . . . Do I know you?"  
  
The taller of the two men reached a beefy hand down and grasped the front of Gary's jacket, hauling the hapless barkeep to his feet as if he were weightless. "Figures you wouldn't remember me," he chuckled. "I don't think you ever got a real good look at my face."  
  
"I-I see it just fine, now," Gary stammered, his nose almost touching the other man's. "That still doesn't t-tell me, um, wh-who you are and what . . . what you want with . . . "  
  
The big man slammed Gary against the nearest fence as if he were a rag doll, knocking the breath from him with a loud 'ooff!' The harried young man slid to the ground, his jacket riding upwards as it caught on the rough boards. Dazed, his vision blurred, he felt rough hands grab him, pulling him to stand unsteadily before his attackers,   
  
"Wh-what do you want!" he gasped, trying to breathe past the pain in his back and chest.  
  
"What we want should be obvious, Treyton," the smaller man sneered from somewhere to his left. "You and Weston busted up a real sweet deal we had goin'. And you put our boss on death row. That didn't set well with him for some reason. So, he arranged for us to breakout and find the ones who put 'im there."  
  
"I'm sorry ta say Weston got his in the arena," the larger man snarled. "Big Angus broke about ever'thing he had. That left you, Treyton. And Jaggs Neff said to make sure you die before he does."  
  
"Y-you're crazy!" Gary managed to say, before a beefy fist drove all the air from his lungs. After that he was not given time to say much of anything. They were through talking.  
  
The two thugs each took an arm, twisting them behind Gary's back until he was forced to stand on tiptoes to ease the strain. They then 'frog marched' him into one of the stables, quickly barring the door behind them and forcing him into a large stall where a bay cowpony was prancing nervously.  
  
The smaller man grasped Gary's wrists, keeping both arms twisted painfully between his shoulder blades. The pain was incredible! It was all Gary could do to get a breath in past the fire that rippled from his fingertips to his chest. There was not enough air getting to his lungs to allow him to cry out; either in pain or for help.  
  
The larger man tilted Gary's chin up, then landed a smashing blow with his fist. He then began using his victim as a punching bag, pummeling his face and abdomen with a number of short, vicious jabs. Several more blows landed on his ribs. Gary was dimly certain that he had felt bones crack.   
  
The beating continued for several minutes, with Gary unable to even kick out at either of the two men. Between the punishment he had received at Luann's hand, and this more 'professional' treatment, he was unable to summon the strength to defend himself at all. He was only distantly aware of finally being allowed to fall to the straw strewn flooring, and the sound of a meaty slap as his assailants left him for dead.   
  
******************** 


	2. Picking Up The Pieces. Again

"This is where the desk clerk said they'd be," Jake murmured uncertainly as they wound their way among the animal enclosures. "And the guy at the gate said Clay was headed in this direction."  
  
"Knowing Gary," Polly sighed, "look for trouble. He'll be right in the middle of it. That boy has the God-awfulest knack for gettin' into one mess after another." She cocked her head to one side, listening intently. "Did you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?" Jake asked, looking around. "This is a noisy place, Polly. You need to be more specific."  
  
"I thought I heard someone in pain," she murmured. Turning slowly, she seemed to be focusing in on something. Finally she stopped, eyes locked in the direction of the stable area. "This way," she told him.   
  
********************  
  
Gary fought to retain consciousness as the horse pranced nervously around his prone form. With what felt like superhuman effort he pushed himself to his feet, only to be knocked down again by flailing hooves. The scent of Gary's blood was driving the animal insane with fear! Dazed and in pain, he tried again to rise. A savage kick caught him squarely on the right hip, slamming him against the stable wall! The injured man slid to the floor of the stall in a boneless heap. Battered, bruised, hanging on to awareness by his fingernails, Gary knew only that he would not be able to dodge the fear-crazed beast much longer. He was barely able to elude him as it was!  
  
Staying close to the ground and pulling himself along by his elbows, Gary tried to drag himself through the muck and the mud, out of the stall. It was slow going, as he kept slipping in and out of consciousness for brief moments. Twice more the enraged, frightened animal struck him with steel shod hooves, once on the lower back and again on his right leg. The next blow missed crashing down on his unprotected head by less than an inch.   
  
Gary kept expecting to hear the sound of bones breaking. As he slid into darkness once more, he sent out a silent prayer that he would be in no shape to feel it when the end finally came.  
  
**************  
  
"You sure he's dead?" the smaller man mumbled around a mouthful of hotdog. "If he isn't, Jaggs'll want our heads next."  
  
The larger man finished swallowing before he spoke. "If he ain't," he said, "that pony'll finish 'im off. Ain't no way he'll survive that beating."  
  
"I don't know," the other sighed, wiping his hands on a bit of paper. "Jaggs ain't got a whole lot more time. He's runnin' out of appeals and he's wantin' proof of Treyton's death before it happens."  
  
The big man looked back over to the stable where they had left their victim. "Then we'd best go get 'im some."  
  
*****************  
  
The battered, bloody figure finally managed to drag himself beneath the stall door. It was a trek that he would recall later only in bits and pieces. Slowly, painfully, Gary grasped the rough-hewn boards of the stall and pulled himself to his feet. The stable door was just a few feet away. Just beyond it was safety in the form of people and open spaces. With his goal firmly fixed in his sight, Gary staggered forward.  
  
One halting step at a time. That was almost more than he could manage. Yet, manage he did until he was halfway to the gaping set of double doors. Gary grimly hung on to an iron hook, the kind that was used to hang tack on to be cleaned or repaired. 'Almost there,' he thought. 'Just a few more feet. I can make it. Just . . .'  
  
Gary looked up as a shadow crossed the opening, blocking out his one beacon of hope.   
  
"Looks like you were right," the big man chuckled. "We'll have to finish this job ourselves."  
  
*****************  
  
"Do you even know where we're going?" Jake Evans asked his companion. "I mean, that noise you heard couldn't have come from here. We were too far away."  
  
Polly shook her head sadly. Some things were so hard to explain. She just knew Gary was in deep trouble somewhere close by!  
  
"It wasn't the kind of noise you hear with these," she told him, brushing a hand over her right ear. "You hear it up here," she added, tapping her head with a forefinger. "And you feel it here." She placed the same hand over her heart. "It's not something you can put into words. Just trust me on this. Gary's in bad trouble and he needs us. Now, pick up those feet and hurry!"  
  
****************  
  
Gary hit the ground, face down, with a thud. The two men had been very efficient in their 'work.' In less than a minute, they had beaten out of him what little strength he had left. His abdomen was one throbbing mass of pain and he had once again lost his breakfast. They had also landed a few kicks behind his knees, effectively 'hamstringing' him. Between their abuse, and the damage already done by the pony's flashing hooves, Gary had all but lost feeling in his legs. Dazed, bleeding and barely conscious he was unable to resist as one of the men jerked his right arm straight out from his side, holding it down with a booted foot.  
  
"You won't get many rides with only one good hand," the big man told him with a sadistic chuckle. "Not that you'll live long enough to miss it."  
  
Lacking the strength to resist, Gary nevertheless tried to reclaim his already abused extremity before any further harm could be done to it. He was rewarded with a jolt of pain as the boot ground into his elbow. Helpless, Gary squeezed his eyes shut so he would not have to witness the destruction of his limb!  
  
Clang!!!  
  
The weight was suddenly gone from his arm, a feat accompanied by surprised shouts, scuffling noises, and a lot of loud cursing. Most of the cursing seemed to be in a woman's voice! 'She's got quite a vocabulary,' Gary thought fuzzily. "P-Polly?"  
  
Gentle hands began to probe his aching body, determining the extent of his injuries. "Just lie still, sugar," that same voice murmured softly. "It's okay. You're safe now, Gary."  
  
"H-how c'n . . . How do you know . . . which one . . .?" he gasped painfully.  
  
"Well," his friend drawled with a touch of amusement in her strong southern accent, "you always seem to be on the receivin' end of these little shindigs." She very carefully helped him to turn onto his right side when he started making retching noises. "Besides, that scar was a dead giveaway," she added, one finger tracing the faint line on his cheek. "Now just take it easy and wait for the medics to get here. I'm afraid yo're in for another trip to the hospital."  
  
"So wh-what else . . . is new?" Gary mumbled as he drifted into darkness.  
  
**************************  
  
Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, Polly wet it with some bottled water she had bought at the concession stand near the entrance. She used the dampened cloth to wipe some of the blood and grime from Gary's poor, battered features. In the distance, she could hear the muffled shouts and curses indicating the twins' success in cornering Gary's assailants. Buddy and Clay had come wandering up with two other men just seconds after she had slammed a shovel full of manure against the larger thug's head. Jake had tackled the smaller man at almost the same moment, knocking him off Gary's back. Those two bruisers had turned tail and run as soon as the odds had turned against them. Of course, the look on their faces when they spied Jake may have had something to do with it. The larger man had worn such a comical look of astonishment, Polly had been tempted to see if the shovel would fit in his mouth.  
  
As Gary's attackers high-tailed it out of there, she had shouted for Buddy and Clay to 'get those sons o' b----!' They had shot her a startled look, then taken off after the two men, no questions asked. The other two men with them had gone along, apparently afraid of missing out on the excitement. She had then started a careful examination so that she could apprise the paramedics of the extent of her young friend's injuries.   
  
That was when she noticed the bloody bandages now hanging loosely from his wrists. Very gently, Polly turned one down to see the deep lacerations that appeared to completely encircle both extremities. Her display of the English language at this discovery was nothing if not masterful and impressive. 'Buddy 'n' Clay better have a good explanation for this,' she decided.  
  
"The ambulance is on its way," Jake told her as he knelt beside them. "How is he?"  
  
"Don't know," Gannon sighed, gently wiping the blood from Gary's lip. "He was talkin' for a bit, then he nodded off. Looks like those bozos worked him over pretty good, though. Damn!" she snapped, fuming. "I shoulda took that goon's head off! I'll lay you odds they didn't even know Gary!"  
  
"They were too well dressed to be muggers," Jake Evans observed dryly. "And they didn't need to rough him up this bad to rob him. Loan sharks?"  
  
"Not Gary," Polly replied with a shake of her head. "He's just not that reckless. If he was losin', he'd stop bettin'. If he was winnin', he didn't need a loan to begin with. I don't know who those yahoos are," she added with a heated look toward the sounds of unarmed combat, "but I wanna be there when the police question 'em."  
  
"P-Polly?"  
  
"Right here, sweetie," she answered in her most soothing voice, one hand automatically brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. "Tell me where it hurts, darlin'."  
  
"Ever'where," he mumbled through swollen lips. "C-can't . . . can't feel . . . legs." Polly was sure she detected a faint note of panic in his slurred response. "P-Polly? Why can't . . . f-feel . . .?"  
  
Polly quickly, but gently, ran a hand over his lower back, cursing softly as she encountered the swelling just above his hips.   
  
"Jake, go to one of those concession stands and get some ice," she instructed the banker in a near whisper. "Lots of it in plastic bags. And some towels if they have any. We need to get this swelling down fast, or he could end up in a wheelchair. Again. Hurry!"  
  
Evans nodded once and took off, returning within minutes with two large garbage bags half filled with ice. Another man was just a step behind him with an armload of dishtowels. Polly took the towels and draped two of them across Gary's back, covering the ragged gaps in his clothing, before positioning one of the ice filled bags firmly against his spine. She then rolled him back slightly so that he was half lying on the icepack. Gary gave out a shuddering groan as the ice sent a chill into his battered flesh, trying to roll away from the source of so much cold. Polly placed a gentle, but firm, hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.  
  
"Trust me on this, sugar," she crooned softly. "Just lie still 'n' let the ice work its magic. You've got some swellin' back there and it's probably pressin' on some nerves. We want to ease that pressure as quick as we can, ya hear me?"  
  
Gary's head nodded once, slowly. "C-cold," he murmured softly. "Sso ccold."   
  
A tear trickled down Polly's cheek as she smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He had slipped into unconsciousness once more, so he didn't see this tiny crack in her professional demeanor.  
  
"Just rest, hon," she murmured gently. "You just rest and leave everything to 'Aunt Polly.'"  
  
*********************  
  
"What the hell is this!" the smaller thug growled as he ran for all he was worth. "Is Treyton triplets or somethin'?"  
  
"How the ---- should I know?" the big man huffed. "I only knew one in the pen," he added, looking over his shoulder at the two 'Treytons' leading the chase. They were closing the gap fast. Those boys could run! "I thought the other two . . . with him were just . . . look-a-likes . . . or somethin'. Didn't . . . didn't pay 'em much . . . mind."  
  
A figure stepped from around a corner directly in front of the running men, bringing a nightstick across the shins of the lead man and tripping him into the path of his larger companion. With an angry cry, both men jumped up to confront their attacker, only to freeze in their tracks. There, in front of them, was another 'Treyton!' This made five they had seen in less than ten minutes! He stood before them, feet spread for balance, club held out in front of him in a defensive posture.  
  
"Just hold up, guys," he told them. "Sit still and we'll have all this sorted out in no time."  
  
Before either of the two thugs could grate out a response, the 'posse' caught up with them. All four men stopped in their tracks as they spied the man standing before their quarry.  
  
"Oh Lord!" one of them gasped, looking from his twin to the third man, evidently as surprised as everyone else. With a shake of his head, he turned to face the men he had been chasing. "We can sort this out later," he snapped. "Right now, we want to know why you've been tailin' our cousin, Gary Hobson. And what've you done with 'im?"  
  
The other twin stepped forward to take a closer look at the larger of the two thugs. "I remember you now," he said. "You were one of Jaggs's dogs. Sykes, isn't? You two weren't followin' Gary. You were after me!" Clay Treyton, the real one, grabbed Sykes by the collar of his jacket. "Jaggs sent you bozos to kill me, didn't he? What's the matter, his time almost up? They getting' ready to strap 'im down and put that drug pedalin' piece of ---- out of our misery?"  
  
"Not yet," Sykes snarled, squaring off in front of the cowboy. "He wanted us to give you a message, Treyton. We just gave it to the wrong one, is all." Without warning, he kicked out at the young rodeo rider.  
  
Clay leaped back out of the way, throwing his opponent off balance. He then jumped right back in, landing a smashing blow on the big man's mouth. After that, things got confusing. It was five against two, now, but the two hardened felons were desperate to escape. They fought ferociously, biting, stabbing, and slashing with switchblades they had whipped out, kicking their opponents wherever they could. Finally, with the arrival of the police, the battle was put to an end.  
  
By that time, every one of the participants was liberally covered with mud, blood, and bruises. Some were limping, some were trying to staunch the bleeding from gaping wounds, and at least one was lying on the ground, unconscious. The police just loaded everyone up in ambulances to be sorted out later, at the hospital.  
  
****************  
  
The paramedics tried to tell Polly she would not be able to ride in the ambulance with Gary. She told them exactly where they could put that decree and how many times to fold it so it would fit. They wisely decided not to push the issue. Polly never left her friend's side all through the ambulance ride, triage and clean up. A situation, which proved beneficial, as she was able to give them an extensive medical history, saving valuable time.  
  
Through it all, Gary drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes asking for Polly, sometimes for his mom. To Polly's relief, the periods of wakefulness were growing longer and he was gradually becoming more lucid. It was during one of these instances that he was finally able to tell her what had happened. She kept her expression neutral with an effort, as he haltingly recited his tale of pain, horror and desperation. She even managed a smile, as she patted his hand and told him to get some rest. Her smile vanished the moment he closed his eyes.   
  
Jake found her coming out of the treatment room as Gary was being wheeled to radiology for some tests. He started to ask how her friend was doing, but the look on her face froze the words in his mouth. 'This can't be good news,' he thought.  
  
"H-how . . .?" he stammered hesitantly.  
  
"They're taking him for an MRI now," she told him grimly. "It's too soon to know, yet, how much damage was done to his spine. They're also gonna do an ultrasound and a CT, to rule out internal injuries. Just to be safe. Then there's that right leg to worry about." Polly looked over to where two uniformed policemen were escorting the men who had attacked Gary into adjacent treatment rooms. "You look around and find the twins," she suggested. "I'm gonna go find me a few answers."  
  
"Answers to what?" Jake asked suspiciously.  
  
"To why they tried to kill Gary for one thing," the fuming tech replied. "For another, how long it'll take me to rip the hide offa those yella bellied, lily livered, scum suckin' dawgs! That one fella was near twice his size! It shouldn't a took two for a fair fight!"  
  
Jake quickly grabbed her by the arms as she tried to push past him. "Whoa!" he cried. "Hold up there Calamity Jane! You do that and they'll lock you up! The best thing you can do is be here when they bring Gary back and let the police handle this. Now, I'll go find Buddy and Clay, but you've got to promise me you'll be right here when I get back. Promise me!"  
  
Polly fixed him with a look that could have burned through the heat shield on the space shuttle. Jake held his ground though, an unparalleled act of courage on his part, until she finally ducked her head and nodded. He could tell she still wanted blood, and lots of it, but she had let her better judgment get the upper hand. For now.  
  
"Go on," she sighed. "See what kinda trouble the others are into. I'm going up to radiology and see if I can't get a little 'professional courtesy.' Try to talk the docs into lettin' me sit in on his tests."  
  
Jake turned to do as she asked, then paused to look back at the motionless woman. "You sure you're okay, now?" he asked.  
  
"I'm sure," Polly told him impatiently. "Now git! Before those two get themselves thrown in jail. I'll be fine."  
  
Jake found it hard to suppress a grin at her brusque manner as he moved to obey. This was a woman used to speaking her mind. But, good God, what a mind!  
  
The financial advisor headed for the front desk, thinking to inquire about other patients fitting his description in case they had been in no shape to give their names. He was almost there when he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he looked into the face of a pretty nurse's aide.  
  
"Please, Mr. Blessing," she said. "You have to put the gown on and wait for the doctor to check out that wound."  
  
"Wh-what gown?" Jake asked, puzzled. "And what wound? I think you've got the wrong . . ."  
  
The determined aide dragged him toward one of the treatment rooms. "We're all very busy tonight, Mr. Blessing," she told her 'patient.' "If you don't want your wound treated, then we have to fill out a waiver. But I'm afraid the police will require you to have it seen to so you can press charges."  
  
"Now wait just a minute!" Jake protested, pulling his arm from her grasp. "I'm not . . ."  
  
"Oh, but you have to press charges!" she insisted, taking his arm again. "It's your civic duty! Do you want those men to get away with what they did to that poor Mr. Hobson?" All the while, she was tugging him toward the door of the treatment room. She snatched open the door without looking inside, and thrust him into the tiny room. "The police will be around to take pictures for their report in just a few minutes," she added with a sweet smile. "Please be ready." With that she let the door swing shut behind her.  
  
"But I'm not Mr. Blessing!" Jake shouted at the closed door. "I'm . . ."  
  
"Of course you're not," a familiar voice said behind him, freezing him in mid shout. "I am."  
  
Jake slowly turned to face the gowned man sitting on the stretcher, a thick bandage wrapping his right thigh and did a 'double-take.' He had a large bruise on the left side of his jaw, and a cut over his right eye. Otherwise, he was a dead ringer for Jake. And Gary. And the twins.  
  
"Oh . . . my . . . Lord!" Jake murmured softly.  
  
**************  
  
Clay was getting restless. He had been waiting for almost an hour for the doctor to come and take a look at his arm. Sykes had sliced a deep furrow in it with his switchblade, which was still oozing blood through the bandage. Clay realized the ER was having a busy night. Still, he wanted to get this over with so he could see how Gary and the others were doing.  
  
Finally, the young wrangler's patience ran out. He slipped back into his jeans and boots, thinking to find the nurse who had stuck him in there and ask her what the hold up was. He hadn't gotten three steps past the door when . . .  
  
"Mr. Blessing!" a young nurse's aide snapped. "What are you doing, walking around with that gash in your leg? And why did you put those dirty clothes back on? That suit was much nicer. You have to stay in that room or the doctor won't know where to find you!" She grabbed Clay by the arm, just missing the bandaged gash by a hair, and led him to another room around the corner from the one he had just left. Ignoring his protests, she flung the door open and pushed him inside. "Now, please be seated!" she snapped. "The doctor will be here in just a moment."  
  
Confused, Clay stood staring at the closed door, wondering what in the world that girl had been chattering on about. There was nothing wrong with his leg! The arm wound alone was probably enough to knock him out of the competition. And what did she mean by that remark about a suit?  
  
"What is this?" someone asked from behind him. "A convention?"  
  
Slowly, Clay turned to see a man with a thick bandage on his leg staring at him from the stretcher. He looked almost as confused as Clay felt. Was this the man who had been holding off Gary's assailants? Standing next to him was another man in a dark gray suit and tie. The man in the suit gave him a strained smile and a two-fingered wave.  
  
*****************  
  
Buddy lay still with an effort as the pretty brunette finished cleaning the tiny laceration on his scalp that had bled so freely. At least it was just inside the hairline so they didn't have to shave too much of his hair to stitch it up. The black eye was going to look worse in the morning. As would the swelling on the left side of his jaw.   
  
The nurse applied a pressure bandage over the wound to stop the bleeding. "There," she said with a smile. "That should hold it until the doctor can get in here and sew it up."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," Buddy replied, flashing her a grin. "So, you like this kinda work?"  
  
The nurse turned away to hide her smile. She had wondered how long it would take before this handsome young man started his 'pick up.'  
  
"It has its moments," she responded evasively. "You meet so many . . . interesting people. Do you live around here or are you just visiting?"  
  
"Just passin' through," Buddy shrugged, wincing as the motion woke up several sore spots. "Tryin' to help a cousin o' mine relax. Cousin Gary's had a pretty rough time of it lately. Poor guy's wound so tight, he cain't hardly sit still. Then things keep happenin' to 'im here! Those two bozos we was fightin' have been dogging his footsteps since we hit town. We all got hauled in the other night for somethin' we didn't do. That got ol' Gary so jittery he got sick and passed out. He hasn't slept good since we been here. He just wanted to hang out and relax. You know, do a little 'no pressure' gaming? Then he started winnin' big and attractin' all kinds of attention. Which only made 'im even more nervous." Buddy shook his head sadly. "Poor Gary just cain't seem to catch a break."  
  
"Maybe he did this time," the pretty nurse smiled. "I don't think anyone named Gary came in from this fight. But I can check if you like."  
  
"Would you please?" Buddy asked, suddenly serious. "He might've got here before us. See, we was chasin' these guys because they hurt someone else. Now, I could be wrong. They might've beat up on someone I never met before. But I'll lay you odds it was Gary Hobson lyin' on the floor of that stable."  
  
A shadow flickered across the young brunette's face at the mention of Gary's name. Buddy got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw it. Damnation!   
  
"It was him!" Buddy exclaimed, followed by several heartfelt curses. "Sorry," he murmured at the shocked look on the woman's face. "It's just . . . We brought him out here to relax! Have a little fun after all the . . . the pain he's been put through over the last year and a half." Buddy jumped up off the stretcher and headed for the door.  
  
"Where do you think you're going" the nurse asked in a stern voice. "Get right back up on that stretcher! That head wound needs stitches!"  
  
"Later!" Buddy snapped. "I've got to find the others. I need to know everyone's alright." He reached for the door handle, only to have it swing inward with enough force to send him staggering back a few steps.  
  
A pretty young thing poked her head around the door, evidently intending to say something to the nurse, when she caught site of Buddy. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open in an 'O' of astonishment.  
  
***************  
  
"This is truly weird an' wonderful," Clay mumbled, "but I need to know where the others are and just how bad Gary's been hurt this time."  
  
"This time?" Jake asked, puzzled. He opened his mouth as if to ask something, then closed it with a shake of his head. "Th-that's what Polly sent me to tell you," he said. "Gary . . . Gary's getting an MRI to make sure there's no permanent damage to his spine. She seemed particularly worried about that."  
  
"She should be," Clay shuddered. "The man spent from June to May learnin' to walk again, from what his dad tol' us. Has he been able to tell you what happened? Why Sykes and his crony jumped 'im?"  
  
"Not where I could hear," Jake replied with a shake of his head. "But whatever he told Ms. Gannon has her ready to take both of them on barehanded. And my money's on her!"  
  
"Ms. Gannon?" Peter asked from his seat on the stretcher. "Who's that? And who's this Gary you guys keep talking about?"  
  
Clay and Jake exchanged glances, then both shook their heads. This was going to take some tall explaining.  
  
****************  
  
"Have you seen the patient from bed six?" the blonde nurse was asking the young aide. "Mr. . . . Treyton?" she added, checking the chart in her hand. "I went to find a suture kit and when I came back, he was gone but some of his clothes are still here."  
  
"M-Mr. Treyton?" the aide repeated uncertainly. "C-could you describe him?"  
  
"Sure," the nurse smiled. "About six feet tall, slender. He has dark brown hair and the dreamiest, um, I mean greenish-brown, heavy-lidded eyes. A face like 'the boy next door.' Have you seen anyone like that?"  
  
"That sounds just like the m-man I keep putting back in bed two," the young aide stammered. She seemed shaken for some reason. "Mr. Blessing. And like the man I just saw in bed nine. Mr. Jackson."  
  
"Well, trust me," the blonde nurse smiled. "There can't be two guys who look like this one. Not this side of heaven," she added with a wink as she turned to continue her search.  
  
"Wanna make a bet on that?" the young aide mumbled under her breath. She finally spotted an intern headed her way and breathed a sigh of relief. At last she could get this patient seen to and get him on his way.  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
The young woman turned to see a middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair and a stocky build looking at her expectantly.  
  
"Have you seen my friend, Jake Evans?" she asked. "I sent him to find out about a coupla other friends who may've been brought in here. Clay Treyton and Buddy Jackson. Have you seen him?"  
  
"Perhaps," the aide replied hopefully, glad for any distraction at this point.  
  
"About six feet, slender," the woman replied. "Dark brown hair, kinda 'All American' good looks, in his thirties. Real nice lookin' fellas."  
  
'Fellas?' the nurses aide thought, puzzled. 'She only described . . .' "Which one were you describing? Mr. Treyton, Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Evans?" There! She'd gotten all three names right!  
  
"That's right," the woman replied with a nod. "Mr. Evans, Mr. Treyton, and Mr. Jackson. Have you seen them?"  
  
Confused, the younger woman simply pointed to the door of room nine. "There's a Mr. Jackson getting a few stitches put into a cut on his head," she replied uncertainly. "And another man in two who fits that description, but his name is Blessing. He's about to get a leg wound sewn up. So, if you'll please describe the other two, I'll . . ."  
  
"Never mind, hon," the woman interrupted her with a disarming smile. "Just tell Mr. Jackson, or one of the others if you see them, that Ms. Gannon will be in Radiology for the next couple of hours. Then she'll be with Gary Hobson in room 216. You got all that?"  
  
"Um, yes," the aide nodded uncertainly. "R-radiology, then room 216. Got it."  
  
"Good girl," the woman, who she assumed was Ms. Gannon, nodded before turning on her heel and heading for the elevators. "Don't forget, now."  
  
"This night is getting so weird," the young aide murmured to herself. "Dr. Bishop! This way," she said to the approaching intern. "Bed two has a deep laceration to the mid-thigh muscle. He also has contusions to the left side of his face and a swelling over his left eye."  
  
"Hi, Sarah. Another one of our brawlers?" the bookish young man asked with a tired smile. "I just got through with one of the rodeo hands involved in that. He said Clay Treyton was involved, too. Something about an assault on his cousin?"  
  
"They must mean Mr. Hobson," Sarah replied with a shudder. "That poor man! I saw him when he was brought in. Those men worked him over good! Both eyes were swollen shut, his lips were split, and he was just barely conscious. He looked awful."  
  
As she spoke, she was pushing open the door to exam room two. Sarah was looking at the young intern, so she was first aware of the stunned look that crossed his face as the door swung open. Puzzled, she turned to see what he found so startling.  
  
There before her were three identical men, two of whom were dressed in gowns, the third in a dark charcoal suit. The two in gowns could only be told apart by the nature of their injuries.  
  
"Mr. Blessing?" she asked in a small voice.  
  
The man seated on the table, a thick bandage covering his wounded leg, raised his hand. "That would be me," he said calmly. "Can we get this sown up so I can go? I have to be in LA by morning."  
  
"M-Mr. Treyton?" Sarah murmured hesitantly.   
  
"Yo," the man with jeans under his gown spoke up. "If we can get on with this, we need to find the rest of our group."  
  
Feeling a little light headed, the young aide turned to the third man. "M-Mr. Jackson?"  
  
"Jake Evans," he spoke up with a shake of his head, simultaneously flashing her an apologetic smile. "But we're friends of Mr. Jackson. Look, if we can save the explanations for later, I'll go find the others."  
  
"A, ahm, Ms. Gannon said sh-she was going to be in Radiology for a few hours," the girl stammered as she stepped aside to let the doctor reach his patient. "Th-then she'll be in room 216. You could wait for her there, if you like."  
  
"Thanks," Jake smiled as he headed for the door. "I'll find my own way."  
  
"Mr. Treyton," she said in a tiny voice, "if you'll come with me, please? I'll take you back to your things and, um, get your wound seen to." 'Then I'm going to go home and have a nervous breakdown,' she silently added to herself.   
  
"Thank you, miss. I'd appreciate that," the rodeo star nodded, smiling. He could see she was shaken up enough. Getting upset with her would only make things worse. "You were talking about someone lookin' awful?" he added as he followed her back to room six. "Would that be my cousin, Gary Hobson, by any chance?"  
  
"I can't discuss our other patients," Sarah replied with a hesitant smile, feeling on more familiar ground.   
  
Clay nodded, acknowledging her reply. As soon as his arm was taken care of, he would join Jake in the room he was sure would be Gary's. Then he would see for himself just how much harm he had brought down on his cousin's head.   
  
***************  
  
Polly was allowed to stay by Gary's side through most of his tests. For some reason her presence seemed to comfort him, making him easier to work with. The only time she could not be in direct contact with him was during the MRI. She stayed close by, though, speaking to him softly from the mouth of the tunnel. By the time they were finished, her voice was hoarse from over two hours of continuous use. On the plus side, she was made privy to the results almost immediately. Not all of it had been good.  
  
When Gary was finally taken to a room later that evening, he had regained his senses enough to feel the myriad aches and pains resulting from his injuries. He was also coherent enough to know that none of them felt life threatening. They just felt as if he had been run over by a fleet of trucks. Just one couldn't have done that much damage.  
  
The orderlies transferred him to the bed with smooth efficiency, making him as comfortable as possible. Gary finally opened his eyes to see Polly and the twins huddled in the corner by the door. Bits and pieces of their conversation drifted his way, none of it making much sense. No need to tell him what? Had the tests shown something? Something serious? No, that couldn't be it. Polly would never hide something like that from him. So, what was it they felt he didn't need to know?   
  
"Polly?" he murmured in a husky croak. Gary licked dry, swollen lips and tried again. "P-Polly? Wha's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing, hon," his friend replied in a voice almost as husky as his. "You've got some broken ribs and a mild concussion. Also, the wounds on your wrists had reopened. They applied an 'artificial skin' over them. It'll reduce the scarring dramatically." She turned a baleful eye toward the twins, who stood near the door, fidgeting like naughty school boys. "You will get around to explaining that. Right?" Polly faced her injured friend once more, smiling gently. "The doctor wants to keep you here a few days for observation. Just a precaution, sugar," she assured him. "That was one heck of a beating you took. Did they say what they were after?"  
  
"Jus' kep' callin' me C-Clay," Gary stammered thickly. "E'erbody thin's 'm Clay. You go' some . . . strange frien's," he told his cousin. "Don' you know a-anyone doesn' w-wanna . . . hur' you?"  
  
"There's one or two out there," Clay replied with a sad smile. "I'm real sorry about this, Gary. Those two goons were after me." He looked sheepishly at the other three gathered around the bed. "I told ya'll I spent a year in the State Pen," he explained. "Somethin' I didn't tell you is that . . . I got crosswise with a drug dealer while I was there. He forced me to help him smuggle the stuff in a coupla times. The first time, I did what I was told 'cause he threatened my life. Made me feel like a traitor 'cause he was usin' the prison ranch as a drop-off. So, the next time I hid the stuff and tried to use it as a lever to make 'im back off. Only it kinda backfired."  
  
"What happened?" Polly asked encouragingly.  
  
"They threatened to kill the guy who got me hooked up with Jaggs," Clay murmured, "and the man who ran the ranch. I stuck to my guns, though. Told them I had to have their word this was the last time afore I'd give 'em even half the shipment. He agreed, we arranged to meet, and I left to get the first half. As soon as I left . . . he stabbed my friend. Then he sent his goons to work me over. Make me tell where the rest of the stuff was hid. Littrel, my friend, lived long enough to get help. Jaggs was caught with the stuff in his pocket, and Littrel's deathbed statement got him a cell on death row. He swore I'd die afore he did." He shot Gary an apologetic look. "I guess he's running out of time."  
  
Gary nodded slowly, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over him. It made sense. In the same situation, he probably would've made the same choices. It was just his bad luck to bear such a resemblance to the man those thugs were after.  
  
"S'okay" he murmured. "You were . . . were jus' tryin' . . . do righ' thin'." His face scrunched thoughtfully as he recalled their muted conference. "Wh-wha' were y'all whisperin' 'bout?"  
  
"Whispering?" Jake asked uncomfortably. "We, um . . ."  
  
"It's nothin' that cain't wait 'til morning," Polly assured him. "How bad are you hurtin', son?"  
  
"No' so bad," Gary mumbled thickly. "Jus' a li'l tired. An' I'm too ol' t'be your son, Polly."  
  
"Not where I'm from, you're not," she replied with a grin. "I'm gonna get you somethin' for the pain yo're 'not' havin' so you can get some rest. We can fill in all the gaps in the mornin'."  
  
As she reached for the call button, a uniformed cop poked his head around the door. "Mr. Hobson?" he asked hesitantly. When he saw that he had everyone's attention, the big cop stepped the rest of the way into the room. He looked at the three men gathered around the bed, half concealing it from his view. "You may remember me. We, um . . . "  
  
"I remember," Buddy grumbled. "You were the guy who refused to take the damned cuffs offa Gary. Wouldn't even loosen 'em up a little when he tol' you he couldn't feel his hands!"  
  
That got Polly's attention! "Pardon me," she drawled in her most disarming tone. "Would either of ya'll care to elaborate on this new development? Jake and I just flew into town today and walked into the middle of this mess. I would truly appreciate someone tellin' me why you felt the need to put my friend in steel restraints to begin with!" Her voice had taken on an icy tone, near the end, that made the hair stand up on the back of every neck in the room. Even Gary's.  
  
Buddy and Clay were quick, real quick, to explain about the misunderstanding that had landed the three of them in jail. They went on to describe the state of near panic Gary was in by the time they had arrived at the station, and how he had rubbed his wrists raw on the steel cuffs.  
  
"We could hear him practically beggin' this . . . officer . . . to just loosen the damned things a little," Clay grumbled, shooting the cop a heated look. "He didn't even bother to check to see if Gary was puttin' on or was really in pain."  
  
The shame-faced cop just bit his lip and nodded. "That's true," he admitted. "And I'll be payin' for that mistake for a long time."  
  
"So what can we do for you, officer," Jake asked quickly, before the fire behind Polly's eyes erupted into a minor holocaust.   
  
Lou winced as he noticed the woman glaring as if she had just caught him drowning kittens. "I-I need to get a statement from you, Mr. Hobson," he stammered nervously, looking toward the man in the dark gray suit. "You're the only one we haven't spoken with yet."  
  
"He's in no shape for this," Polly stated in a flat, emotionless voice. "Come back in the morning."  
  
Puzzled, Lou looked at the unmarked man he had assumed was Gary Hobson. Looking closer, he noticed that the man wore no bandages on his wrists, either.   
  
"Y-you're not . . .?"  
  
"I'm Jake Evans," the man replied. He then stepped aside so that Lou could see the figure on the bed. "This is Mr. Hobson."  
  
"Dear Lord!" Lou whispered. "Just how many of you guys are there? I mean, I do remember you guys from last night. Who could forget hauling in triplets. Then there's that Blessing guy I just talked with downstairs, too. Now . . ." He waved a hand at Jake, suddenly at a loss for words.  
  
"Last night?" Polly asked, shooting the twins a 'raised eyebrow' look. "The injuries to his wrists were last night? Not the night before?"  
  
"Um, yeah," Clay replied, squirming under her scrutiny. What was it about her that reduced grown men to feeling like errant school children? "W-we told ya about that. When they hauled us in by mistake."  
  
"I see," the stony-faced woman replied. Turning to the cop, she added, "As I told you, Gary's in no shape to be questioned right now. This will have to wait 'til morning."  
  
"I'd like to, ma'am," Lou replied, squirming under that steady gaze. "Trouble is, we need to get a handle on where they might be as quickly as possible."  
  
The heat in those dark gray eyes went up a couple of notches. "Last I saw," she said in a voice that dripped icicles, "they were bein' taken into treatment rooms four and five down in the ER."  
  
"Yes, well, there was a bus accident and, in the confusion, they . . . slipped away," he admitted. "Thanks to Mr. Treyton, we know who they are, and we've learned they escaped from the Texas State Penitentiary three weeks ago. Y'all also said that Mr. Hobson noticed 'em followin' him at one of the casinos. We, um, we need to get a line on their movements. M-maybe backtrack to where they're hid out."  
  
"It can wait 'til morning," Polly repeated in a no-nonsense tone. "He needs his rest. I'll call you when he can talk."  
  
Lou got the distinct impression that he would be wise not to press the issue. Gary, evidently, was made of sterner stuff. He fumbled with the bed controls until he had raised his head enough to meet the big cop's eyes with his own swollen, discolored visage.   
  
"M'okay," he mumbled thickly, ignoring his friend's protests. "Firs' saw'm . . .Caesar's Palace. Don' know . . ." He paused as a grimace of pain crossed his battered features. "Don' know how long they watched me 'fore that. Wasn' 'spectin' trouble. We-we're jus' here to . . . to relax."  
  
Keeping one eye on the woman standing protectively by the man he was questioning, Lou led Gary over every time he had seen the two thugs. He had the injured man repeat as much of what the two men had said to him as he could recall. Less than thirty minutes later, Hobson's voice had grown even more slurred and tired. More important, the woman looked as if she would dearly love to rip Lou's head off.  
  
"I think that's enough for tonight," Lou said with a nervous smile, closing his notebook. "We'll check out the dealers and staff at these places and see if they remember anything. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr. Hobson." He started to turn for the door.  
  
"Officer," the woman, Ms. Gannon, spoke up. "These men are considered 'armed and dangerous,' correct?"  
  
"Pretty much, ma'am," the cop replied cautiously. "Why?"  
  
"So breakin' every bone in their bodies with a ball bat could be considered self-defense?"  
  
"Depends on who strikes the first blow," he answered, wondering what she was planning. "Why?"  
  
"Just checking," she replied in a lazy drawl. "Wouldn't want to go around breakin' any laws," she added, her lips turning up in a smile that stopped way short of her eyes.  
  
As he finally left the room, Lou had a feeling they needed to find those fugitives in a hurry. If not for Hobson's sake, then for theirs.  
  
***************  
  
Polly lowered the head of the bed until Gary was lying almost flat. In spite of the doctor's hopeful prognosis, she worried about what a beating like this could do to his spirit. Not to mention that he had to have been aware of what that one man was about to do with that up-raised knife. Even from her standpoint, Polly just knew that slime ball had intended to mutilate her young friend.   
  
"You haven't asked about your legs," she murmured, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead. "Can you feel 'em yet?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Gary replied drowsily, nodding once. "In spades. Feel ever'thin'." He licked dry, painfully swollen lips before continuing. "Wh-wha' zit . . . you don' wan' me t'know?"  
  
Polly settled herself a little more comfortably in her chair. The nurse had brought the pain medication while the officer had been questioning Gary, injecting it directly into the IV port. She had hoped it would have knocked him out by now. But her young friend was nothing if not stubborn. She quietly debated whether to tell him about Peter Blessing. It wasn't as if the two of them were likely to meet anytime soon. Peter had left directly for his hotel when he had been released from the ER, planning to pack and catch the 'red-eye' to LA later that night. Exchanging questioning glances with the twins and Jake, she decided it wouldn't be right to keep secrets from him. Besides, it might keep him from worrying about his injuries.  
  
"There's another double out there," she told him. "His name is Peter Blessing and he's an independent security consultant working' out of LA. We don't know much else about 'im, but he seems troubled. I don't think life's been too kind to 'im."  
  
"He's also the reason we were all hauled in the other night," Buddy told him. "Seems he saw this guy slappin' his date around and stepped in to put a stop to it. The other guy swung first, but Blessing decked him. The woman turns out to be the bully-boy's wife, an' she starts screamin' for the cops. Blessing just throws up his hands and walks out. When he heard that the police were lookin' for 'im, he went to the cops himself. So did half a dozen witnesses. All charges were dropped this morning."  
  
"Hard to faul' a guy tryin' t'do righ' thin'," Gary mumbled sleepily. His puffy eyes were already closing as he drifted towards a drug-induced slumber. "Pro'ly nice guy. Jus' had . . . hard life."  
  
Gary gave a deep sigh as his head slowly turned to the side. A moment later his deep, rhythmic breathing let them know he was sound asleep. Finally.  
  
"That went better than we'd hoped," Jake commented dryly.   
  
"Only because he was drugged," Buddy assured him. "Trust me, the way things 've been goin' for 'im lately, he would've freaked."  
  
"Now," Polly said, taking each twin by an arm and leading them to the other side of the room, "I want answers, you two, and I want them now. You are going to tell me, in as few words as possible, how Gary happened to get so badly mistreated on two separate occasions in less than twenty-four hours! Were ya'll supposed to be watching him?"  
  
Buddy and Clay exchanged nervous glances over the head of their interrogator. This was not going to be pretty.  
  
**************  
  
Gary was still sound asleep an hour or so later, when Polly heard a tentative knock on the door. She looked up from the recliner where she had settled in for her vigil to see an all too familiar face peeking around the door. She knew instantly that he wasn't Jake or one of the twins. They had finally been convinced to return to the Excalibur for a good night's sleep.   
  
"Mr. Blessing, I presume," she murmured drowsily, without attempting to rise.  
  
"Peter," he acknowledged with a hesitant smile. Nodding toward the figure on the bed, he limped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "How is he?"  
  
"Sore, tired," Polly shrugged. Holding out a hand, she introduced herself. "Polly Gannon."  
  
"Nice to meet you," Peter smiled, shifting his crutches in order to shake her hand. Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find she had a firm grip. "I came to apologize for last night. I had no idea that anyone else looked enough like me to get in trouble because of anything I did."  
  
"No way you could," the tired looking woman replied, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Gary. "You do that a lot?" she asked. "Rescue strange women?"  
  
"No," Peter admitted, glancing down at his feet in embarrassment. "Just . . . My wife left me a few years ago, after I did something she . . . she couldn't forgive. That woman the other night reminded me of her, I guess. When he started slapping her around . . . It just didn't set well with me. It was stupid. I should've minded my own business."  
  
"What you did was right," Polly told him with a gentle smile. "Your motives were pure. What's to feel guilty about?"  
  
Peter nodded his head toward the sleeping figure on the bed. "Him," he murmured. "What I did to . . . The thing I did that caused my wife to leave me, it was wrong. Very wrong. It cost me her, my job . . . my child. Everything. Turned my whole life upside down and shook it clear down to the roots. I made myself a promise never to hurt anyone like that again. Now look what I've done," he added in a tone that clearly said, 'Screwed up again.'  
  
"You can't blame yourself for anything that's happened to Gary," Polly told him with a shake of her head. "You had no idea he even existed. This," she added, waving a hand at the sleeping man, "wasn't even because he looked like you. They were after his cousin, another look-alike. You guys could start a club, there's gettin' to be so many of you."  
  
Settling gingerly into the other chair, Peter looked from the bed, to her, and then back again. He seemed puzzled, uncertain exactly what questions to ask.  
  
"Just, um, just how many . . . ?"  
  
"Counting you? Six now, that we know of. Still livin', that is."  
  
Peter's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Six? Are you . . . ? You're serious! Six!" He sat back in the chair, his face a study in awe and amazement. "I knew I bore a strong resemblance to an actor named Chandler, but . . ."  
  
"Not just a resemblance," Polly corrected him. "You could be twins. Right down to that itty-bitty birthmark."  
  
One hand automatically went to the tiny mark just below his right sideburn as Peter digested what she was telling him. "How can something like this be possible?"  
  
"In the case of Clay and Buddy," Polly shrugged, "they really are twins. Buddy was stolen by a baby broker the day he was born. Gary, it turns out, is a second cousin to them. Where you, Jake Evans, and Mr. Chandler figure in, I have no idea. Yet. We've just been rolling with the flow, hoping things will make sense . . . eventually."  
  
"But you're not betting that it will," Peter commented, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Not in my lifetime," the older woman agreed. "Now, don't you have a plane to catch?"  
  
"Not for a couple of hours," he shrugged. "I'd still like to talk to Mr. Hobson. Apologize for him getting arrested. I guess . . . It would make me feel a little better about it if I were able to at least let him know how sorry I was that he was hurt because of what I did."  
  
"No pro'lem," a slurred voice murmured from the bed. "All forgi'en. Now, go 'way. Le' a fella ge' some sleep."  
  
Polly chuckled quietly as she rose to pull the covers up to Gary's chin. "Faker," she accused softly. "You were listening, weren't you?"  
  
"Um," he nodded sleepily, swollen eyes still closed. "Har' no' to. Tell Pe'er, no har' feelin's. 'Kay?"  
  
With an amused grin, Polly glanced over at the timidly smiling young man. "No problem," she murmured. "I think he heard you loud 'n' clear, darlin'."  
  
**********************  
  
Back at the Excalibur, Clay, Buddy, and Jake were holding an impromptu 'war counsel.' The twins were arguing as to whether or not they could possibly take Gary back home in the shape he was in. With Thanksgiving still more than two weeks away, there was hope, Buddy argued, that he would be completely healed by then. Or that most of the bruises would fade, at least. All they had to do was keep Lois from seeing the shape he was in now!  
  
"You want to lie to his mother?" Jake asked in puzzled amazement. "Doesn't she have a right to know what's happened to him?"  
  
"Normally," Buddy drawled, "I'd say 'yes, of course.' But you've only met her the one time. We've gotten to know her a bit better. She will skin us alive for letting Gary get into this bad of a shape."  
  
"He ain't kiddin', either," Clay spoke up from where he lay sprawled on the sofa. "That woman could give a she-bear lessons on protectin' her cubs. She's seen him go through Hell 'n' back over the past year an' a half an' I guess it's took it's toll on all of 'em."  
  
"That's another thing," Jake said. "You guys keep referring to 'what he went through last year.' Now, and please forgive my ignorance here, just exactly what was it that happened to him last year?"  
  
Clay looked up at his twin, who returned the gaze with a shrug. "I'm afraid we don't know all the particulars," he said. "But, somewhere along the line, he ended up in a wheelchair for a while, died a few times, near drowned, froze, and I think that was about the time when he got snake bit. Got shot a few times, and almost had his hand taken off at the wrist when some yahoo broke into his home. He also saved a few lives here 'n' there, and got drove outta his hometown. At Christmas time, no less, . Then we come along after he'd locked horns with some Chinese gangster, and was still out-runnin' hit-men."  
  
"That's when he wasn't runnin' into us, gettin' possessed by this Tony character, who also looked like us, and startin' a new singin' career," Buddy added with a mischievous smile. "Not to mention gettin' shot at on stage an' then bein' pistol-whipped by one of the top ten assassins in the world. Who, by the way, was the same lady that shot the guy he was bein' possessed by, who wasn't really dead. He was just in a coma."   
  
"Then the other guy dies," Clay said, taking up the tale, "almost takin' Gary with 'im. Only then somethin' happens. We don't know what, an' Gary won't talk about it, but this Tony guy, who was in the coma, wakes up long enough to say goodbye to his momma, tell her how much he loves her, thank Gary for lettin' 'im hitch a ride, then dies. At least that's what Lois said. We weren't in on that part."  
  
"It was after he got out of the hospital, again, that my ol' boss, Dusty Wyatt, told us about this cousin he wanted us to meet," Buddy added. He shook his head ruefully. "I still think ol' Dusty pulled a fast one on us. I'm bettin' he knew just how much that cousin of his, Kyle Chandler, looks like the rest of us. Then you come along. Is it any wonder poor ol' Gary's nerves are wound so tight?"  
  
Jake listened to their summation with interest at first, them growing skepticism. Nobody could go through that much in just a little over a year and a half and stay sane! Did they really expect him to buy into that cockamamie story?  
  
"Y-you guys are pulling my leg," he accused, chuckling nervously. "Gary didn't . . . and you don't really expect me to . . . possessed? Come on!" He looked from one twin to the other. Neither man was smiling now. "You're serious? Like right out of the 'Twilight Zone' kinda stuff?"  
  
"Next time you get a chance," Clay told him without a trace of humor in his voice, "ask him about that watch of his. Read the inscription, then ask him to tell you what it means. Then ask Ms. Polly for the rest of the story. She was there when most of this was goin' on." Placing his hands behind his head, Clay stretched out full length on the sofa. "Gary's been through Hell just since we've known 'im. I don't doubt the rest of it a bit."  
  
"Anyway," Buddy said, "we've got to come up with an excuse for not goin' back to Chicago just yet. 'Cause, whether you believe us or not, Jake, his mother is a force to be reckoned with. Even worse than Ms. Polly, if you can believe that. She will not take kindly to any harm comin' to her one and only child."  
  
"Hey!" Clay cried, swinging his feet onto the floor and sitting bolt upright. He gave Buddy and Jake a look full of excitement. "What if we went after the two that hurt him?" he asked. His two look-alikes stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "No! Think about it! Those two won't be that hard to find. I'm pretty sure they ain't leavin' town 'til they can prove to Jaggs that I'm dead. All we have to do is keep showin' ourselves, one in the open and the other two close by, 'til they take the bait. Then we beat the crap outta them and turn 'em in."  
  
"I got a better idea," Buddy chuckled. "Let's get Ms. Polly that ball bat and let her beat the crap out of 'em. Right now, she's mad enough to take on a whole herd o' grizzlies!"  
  
"I thought you wanted to take them in alive," Jake snorted.   
  
A knock on the door caused all three men to jump. Exchanging a shaky grin with the twins, Jake got up to answer.   
  
Even though he wasn't a country/western fan, Jake instantly recognized the man standing in the hall from his posters that had been all over Chicago recently.   
  
"You don't look near as bad as I expected," Dusty Wyatt grinned as he looked Jake up and down. "I heard you got beat up pretty bad." His grin widened at the other man's stunned expression. "You gonna ask me in or leave me standin' out here in the hall, Gary?"  
  
"Hunh? Oh, sorry." Jake swung the door open wider. "Come on in, Mr. Chandler. I'm not Gary, though. I'm Jake. Jake Evans. Sorry I can't say I'm a fan, but a friend took me to your last benefit." The younger man suddenly snapped his fingers. "That's where I heard that name before!"  
  
Dusty had given him a startled look when Jake introduced himself, then waved at the twins as he stepped into the room. "Which name?" he asked.  
  
"Hobson!" Jake replied with a shake of his head. "I was there when all hell broke loose that night. Barely got my friend out in time. So, um, what can we do for you, Mr. Chandler?"  
  
"Just stopped by to see how you guys were doin'," the entertainer shrugged. He had a disarming, easy-going manner that reminded Jake of Clay in some respects. "And to see if Gary had changed his mind about the concert tomorrow night."  
  
"We're okay," Buddy told his old boss. "A little sore, and a few more scars, but okay. Gary was worked over pretty bad, though. He's gonna be in the hospital a coupla more days. 'Fraid he's gonna miss the concert." He fidgeted nervously. "So they liked my song, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Dusty murmured distractedly. "Got three producers wantin' Gary to do a video and sign a record deal. The boy has talent. Too bad he's so scared of publicity." He turned back to Jake, who had not moved from the door. "This is . . . I've had pups from the same litter that didn't look so much alike! How are you related to these two?"  
  
"So far as we know," Jake replied with a hesitant smile, "I'm not. We're looking into it, though. Um, can we get you anything? A drink or something?"  
  
"Coffee? It's a might chilly out there." He smiled as Clay quickly produced a steaming cup. "Thanks." He took a sip of the near-scalding liquid, sighing in appreciation. A moment later, after filling Dusty in on the day's events, all four men were seated in the 'living room' area, each with his own cup. "So, how bad was he hurt this time?"  
  
"Not as bad as he looks," Clay shrugged. "But bad enough." He ran through a list of injuries that sounded like a medical school entrance exam. "Ms. Gannon didn't let on to Gary just how much all those tests showed," he concluded. "They found a few things goin' on that, well, he ain't out o' the woods yet."  
  
Dusty shook his head sadly. "I don't think I've ever met a more trouble prone fella in my life," he sighed. "Well, that explains all the security in the lobby. Still, you'd think they'd put an officer or two outside your door."  
  
"Why?" Clay snorted derisively. "Those two are probably half way to Mexico by now."  
  
"Don't bet on it," the entertainer cautioned him. "You, of all people, should know how single minded guys like that can be. An' they didn't go to prison for bein' model citizens."  
  
"Or get there by bein' smart," Buddy added, shooting his brother a worried look. "They may just be stupid enough to hang around, waitin' to get the right one this time."  
  
Clay sat back, digesting their advice. "You're right," he admitted. "Those two never were the sharpest tools in the shed. Sykes 'specially needed Jaggs to tell him how to think. I'll bet he ain't got more 'n two gray cells to rub together. That other one, Hicks, was probably sent along to keep Sykes in line."  
  
"Hicks and Sykes," Dusty murmured softly. "Sounds like a country duo."  
  
"The duet from Hell," Clay grinned. "I've heard those two tryin' to sing. A cat fight sounds pretty good next to them." The young rodeo star jumped up and started pacing the room, his left hand scratching absently at the bandages on his right arm.  
  
"Would ya quit that?" Jake snapped. "Do you wanna bust those stitches?"  
  
With a guilty start, Clay jerked his hand away from his wound. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Itches." He continued to pace as the others tried to come up with an explanation that would keep them off Lois Hobson's 'hit-list.' "One thing's for sure," he grumbled. "We gotta get Cousin Gary outta this town. It's only been three days and look what's already happened to 'im. By the end of the week, he'll be in a body cast!"  
  
"We could take 'im on down to meet the folks," Buddy suggested. "My mom an' dad'll be glad for the company. I'm a little anxious to meet your family, too. Where did you say ya'll lived?"  
  
"We moved to Uvalde when I was fourteen," Clay shrugged.   
  
"Uvalde!" Buddy sputtered, almost burning himself with spilled coffee. "That's about as far from nowhere as you can get without leavin' the planet!"  
  
"That's pretty much what my folks had in mind, I think," Clay replied with a wry grin. "Less chance for me to get into trouble. I just saw it as a challenge. I never was much good at a lot of things," he added with a shake of his head, "but I was a world class pain in the . . ."  
  
"I think we get the picture," Jake hurried to say. "So what's the plan? Do we fly down to Uvalde? Can you fly to Uvalde?"  
  
"You can," Clay told his friends with a shudder. "I wouldn't recommend it, though. Last time I was there, we had to go out twice a week to chase cattle off the runway."  
  
"What about an RV? An RV sounds good," Jake said, looking quickly to Buddy and Dusty. "Doesn't an RV sound like the way to go? Nice leisurely drive of about a week or so, a bed in the back for Gary to rest on, stop whenever, and wherever you want? We might even do some camping. What do you say?"  
  
Buddy snatched the phonebook off the coffee table and began leafing through the yellow pages. "Some of these dealers open early," he told them as he scanned the pages. "Gary's not gonna be let out for a coupla days, at least. That gives us just enough time to find what we need."  
  
"And, if his mom calls," Clay told Jake, "you can pretend to be Gary. Yo're accent is close enough to his to fool 'er over the phone."  
  
"No," Jake replied, shaking his head vigorously. "Uh-unh! I am not lying to Mrs. Hobson! She deserves to know what's going on. If she calls," he added with a wry grin.  
  
*******************  
  
Gary awoke when a thin band of sunlight fell across his eyes. Blinking, he turned his head to escape the blinding ray. On the opposite side of the bed he saw Polly stretched out in a recliner, apparently sleeping. As he watched, wondering what she was still dong there, she stretched both arms out in front of her in a lazy gesture that reminded him of the cat for some reason.  
  
"G'mornin'," she yawned, eyes still closed. "Finally decided to wake up?"  
  
"Mmm," Gary murmured drowsily. He rubbed one hand over some of the tender spots on his abdomen, frowning as he felt something under his hospital gown. Curious, he carefully pulled the gown up until he had uncovered three widely spaced bandages. He gave Polly a puzzled look. "I don' 'member bein' stabbed," he told her.  
  
"You weren't, darlin'," the tech replied in a sleep thickened voice. "They had to go in an' repair a few veins 'n' arteries. Do a little patch job on your spleen, that sorta thing. The docs opted to do it by laparoscope so you could get back on your feet quicker. A coupla days instead of weeks. Want me to 'splain the procedure to ya?"  
  
"No!" Gary replied hurriedly. "N-no, tha's okay. I, um, don' really need t'know. Do I?"  
  
"Not really," Polly chuckled. "How d'ya feel? Still sore?"  
  
Gary just nodded by way of reply as he tucked his gown back beneath the covers. He kept finding sore spots where a fist, a foot, or a hoof had left its mark. Somehow, this vacation wasn't turning out at all like they had planned. So why was he not surprised?  
  
"Couple days, hunh?" he murmured. "C'n we g'home when I ge' out?"  
  
"Not if the twins have their way," his friend told him. "They're out right now trying to get a good deal on an RV. A rental, if they can manage it. It not, they're lookin' to buy. They thought it might be easier on you than sittin' up in a car or a plane. Buddy's still hopin' to take ya'll to meet his adopted family. I think Clay's havin' second thoughts about us meeting his folks, though. He's startin' to squirm every time we bring the subject up."  
  
"I 'member him sayin' sumpin' 'bout bein' the 'black sheep,'" Gary mumbled. "Maybe he's 'fraid they won' . . . won' let 'im g' home."  
  
"You mean slam the door in his face?" Polly fell silent as she considered his theory. "You could be right," she finally said. "He's a quiet one now, but folks I've talked to that 'knew him when' say he used to be more talkative. Positively gabby, they say. And wild as they come. I wonder what it was that changed him so much."  
  
"Prison?" Gary speculated.   
  
Polly shook her head sadly. "In spite of what the politicians say," she told him, "very few are actually reformed in prison. He had to've been a pretty decent guy before he went in. He just didn't know it. Now, I think . . . I think he's ashamed of how he used to be. He's embarrassed and he's afraid. Maybe we can draw him out on the long drive south."  
  
"Need t'work on Bu'y," Gary added with a tired nod. "He's li'l edgy, too."  
  
"I know," Polly grinned. "He's scared o' yo're mom." She laughed outright at the startled look on her young friend's face. "Didn't you know that? That woman put the fear of God into both of 'em. I don't know how or when, but she did. He's absolutely trembling at the thought of what she'll do if she sees you like this!"  
  
"You're kiddin' me," Gary accused her. "You're not kiddin'! Hunh!" He lay back, staring at the ceiling as he considered her words. A slow grin spread across his battered features. He could see some definite possibilities there. 'You two better behave or I'll tell Mom!'  
  
"They were up brainstormin' all night," Polly told him. Plannin' where t'go first, how much time they needed for you to heal and how to keep yo're momma from findin' out. So far, Jake is refusin' to try and pass himself off as you. I'm waitin' to see how long before he caves. Oh! Almost forgot. Dusty Wyatt came by earlier to see how you were doin'. He said to tell you to get well fast. There's some record producers wantin' to sign you into a deal. Or at least get the rights to that song."  
  
Gary shifted uncomfortably on the hospital bed. "Tell 'em ta talk to Buddy," he finally murmured. "It's his song, no' mine. I jus' sang it tha' one time ta catch those two 'ssassins. No more. Ne'er."  
  
"Never say never, darlin'," Polly advised him with a sad little smile. "You don't know what you may be called upon to do in the future."  
  
Gary mumbled something too low for Polly to make out with any certainty as he rolled onto his side and drifted back to sleep. She wasn't sure, but it had sounded something like 'Don't bet on that.'  
  
**************  
  
Two days later, Gary was pronounced well enough to be released from the hospital. His friends arrived early the next morning to pack his few toiletries and get him signed out. He was cautioned to take it easy for the next couple of weeks and to work at regaining his strength gradually. The doctor also told him to watch his diet. He could have solid foods, but he would have to cut his meat into small bites to accommodate his sore jaw.  
  
"You've been through a very traumatic experience, Mr. Hobson," his doctor reminded him. "Not just physically, but psychologically as well. I'd recommend counseling as soon as possible."  
  
"I know the drill, Doc," Gary replied with a tired grin. "This isn't my first 'traumatic experience.' I've been this route more than once." Leaning heavily on a wooden cane to take some of the weight off his injured leg, he carefully levered himself up from the bed. He tried to wave away the wheelchair a nurse was holding as unnecessary, but one look from Polly changed his mind. He settled into the conveyance with a sigh. "Right," he grumbled. "Don't over do it."  
  
"The twins got a pretty good deal on a new Winnebago," his friend informed him as they headed for the entrance. "A Brave 36M. Amazing what you can accomplish with enough cash."  
  
"Whoa! That money was supposed to go to the foundation!" Gary protested. "A new Winnebago ain't cheap!"  
  
"Don't worry," Polly assured him. "We took a couple of thousand to the roulette wheel yesterday afternoon and cleaned up. Jake did pretty good at the craps table, too. Added to what the boys won on the ponies, we had more than enough."  
  
Gary gingerly twisted around to look at his friend, favoring his left ribs. "Wh . . . what if you'd lost?"  
  
For the first time since he had known her, Polly looked uncertain. "I honestly don't think we could have," she told him. "It was weird. I hadn't even planned on gambling, but something . . . I get these hunches once in awhile and they're usually pretty much on track. Yesterday, I just felt like we needed to go to this one casino and bet our shirts. So we did. We sent another half-a-million back to the foundation and bought the RV. Buddy thinks we should give it to your folks once we get back home."  
  
Turning forward once more, Gary failed to suppress a chuckle. "Dad would be in hog heaven," he agreed, "but do you guys really intend to drive all over Texas and then back to Chicago? I promised Mom I'd be back in time for Christmas."  
  
"We're still a bit shy of Thanksgiving," Polly grinned. "I think we can make it. The twins got everything packed and loaded last night, so we can hit the road anytime you say."  
  
"Why is it up to me?" Gary asked. "I'm just along for the ride."  
  
"Well, this was supposed to be your vacation," she reminded him. "Where do you want to go from here?"  
  
Gary leaned back in the chair as he considered that question. There was one place where he felt he absolutely had to go before they left Las Vegas. Somehow, he felt the doctor would approve.  
  
****************  
  
Gary leaned heavily on his cane as he stared down at the bench where his ordeal had started. For just a moment, his mind flashed back to that day. His body ached from the impact of Sykes fist on his stomach, his ribs. He still felt the agony of having his already injured wrists twisted up between his shoulders. With a shake of his head, Gary snapped himself back to the present.  
  
"Are you okay?" Clay asked his cousin. "You looked kinda . . . spooked for a second or two."  
  
"S'alright," Gary murmured. "All part of the 'treatment." Resolutely, he turned his face toward the stables where Polly and Jake had beaten off his attackers. "Let's get this over with."   
  
Moving painfully at his halting pace, his left arm wrapped protectively across his ribs, Gary led the way to the building where he had been so brutally beaten. The fairground was packed with people there to attend the last few days of the charity event. His vision seemed to close in around the edges as he bulled his way awkwardly through the crowd. In spite of being out in the open, Gary was feeling 'hemmed in.' Focusing his attention on the open barn, he tried to shut out the noisy, jostling crowd. By the time he reached his goal, Gary was bathed in a fine sheen of cold sweat and his heart was racing madly. He recognized the symptoms from bitter experience. He was on the verge of a panic attack. Giving himself a mental shake, Gary limped as boldly as he could into the cavernous structure. 'This part is never easy,' he reminded himself.  
  
Gary paused at the metal hook that he had clutched so desperately that day, remembering the feelings of pain, fear and desperation. He vividly recalled the instant when his hopes of salvation were dashed by the shadows that had fallen across the open doorway as he clung to this slender support.  
  
Next, he moved to the enclosure where he had been pummeled so unmercifully by both man and beast. He had asked that the same horse be waiting there, and it was. He was a handsome bay with a white blaze running from a point just under his forelock, widening until it spanned his muzzle. The horse snorted nervously, prancing irritably around the stall as the party neared.  
  
"Be careful," Lundy cautioned them as Gary stepped up to the fidgety animal. "He's been edgy ever since it happened. Won't let anyone but his regular handler touch him."  
  
Gary limped closer and carefully leaned his arms atop the lower half of the door. He pulled a couple of sugar cubes from his pocket and held them out to the nervous animal. "He was just as spooked about what happened as I was," he murmured softly. "C'mon, fella," he crooned, fighting back his own discomfort. "It's okay. We both got pretty shook up, didn't we, boy?" He continued talking in a soothing, even tone despite the cowpony's obvious agitation.  
  
"You might oughta come away from there," Lundy warned him. "He's lookin' a little wall-eyed."  
  
"He's still smelling the blood," Gary replied, never raising his voice. "It frightened you, didn't it fella? Me, too. Those guys scared the crap outta both of us. We can get through this, though. You 'n' me, big guy. We just have to take that next step."   
  
The bay eyed him suspiciously, shaking his head vigorously and stomping the paddock floor with his forelegs.   
  
"They tell me you were a good cowpony before this happened," Gary murmured softly. "One of the best. Now you're afraid. You smell man and all you remember is the blood. Forget the blood, big guy. Remember what you are, who you are. You're the best. Now, come on. It's yours for the taking. Just remember what it means to trust."   
  
Hesitantly, the horse slowed it's pacing, eyeing this strange human cautiously. Something about his scent was familiar, frightening. It reminded him of another smell. The smell of blood . . . of death. He feared death. Death was darkness. Death was . . . death was . . . What was that in his hand? Triangular ears pricked forward one at a time as curiosity nudged at the edges of his fear. His nervous prancing slowed to a steady pace as he kept his eyes glued to that outstretched palm.  
  
Gary allowed a tiny smile to tug at the corners of his mouth as the horse slowed its nervous pacing. He knew his words meant nothing to the big animal. Only his tone mattered. His tone and the treats. "You want this, don't you, fella?" he crooned. "You want it? It's yours. Aaalll you gotta do is come get it." He reached into a plastic bag hidden within his coat pocket, pulling out a few apple slices. The aroma of the fresh fruit was evident even to the humans. It was almost overpowering to their equine patient. "Nice, sweet, Golden Delicious apples. They tell me that's your favorite. You want more? I've got plenty to spare." Gary pulled out two more slices, upping the ante. "There you go. Ready to . . .?"  
  
The aroma was overpowering to the horse's sensitive nostrils. Hesitantly, he craned his head forward, deep brown eyes starting to soften as he sniffed delicately at the fragrant morsels in Gary's hand. Everything seemed safe, and the fruit smelled so tempting! Taking a cautious step forward, the cowpony's upper lip seemed to tremble as it nudged the top slice toward the end of Gary's fingers. The sliver of fruit quickly disappeared as the large, even teeth snatched it off of Gary's outstretched palm. Another soon followed the first, and the battle was won.  
  
"Good, boy," Gary murmured, rubbing the white blaze gently as the horse gobbled up the tasty morsels then nudged his hand, looking for more. With a low, throaty chuckle Gary dug out the bag of apple slices and began feeding them to the now docile animal, one at a time.  
  
"Now that was something to see," Lundy murmured. "Where did you learn to do that?"  
  
"Nowhere," Gary replied in the same crooning tones as he rubbed the velvet soft muzzle. His eyes never left the horse. "This was as much for me as for him. He was here when it happened. A . . . a witness, sorta. It left both of us scarred emotionally. I had to get past his fear before I could get to the root of my own."  
  
"Just exactly how many times have you been through this?" Jake asked.  
  
"Too many," was Gary's terse response. He gently nudged the whuffling snout aside as he opened the gate, easing himself into the stall. The horse sniffed at him suspiciously as he limped deeper into the enclosure. "This . . . this is where they left me," he told them, pointing to the back corner of the paddock. "The horse," he added, giving the animal a gentle pat on the withers, "was . . . alarmed by the smell of blood. They slapped him to . . . to get him even more . . ."  
  
Gary paused, standing stock still as the memories washed over him. The others waited patiently, letting him work through it on his own. He closed his eyes, fighting to remain calm. That was another reason Gary had insisted on the animal's presence, to force himself to maintain his composure. He did not want his fear to escalate into panic. The horse served as an excellent barometer of his own inner turmoil. When it began to whicker nervously, he was snapped out of his fear induced trance.   
  
"Um, he, um, panicked," Gary went on hesitantly. "Began kicking a-and stomping. I-I managed to crawl out . . . somehow. The details are a little . . . fuzzy, but . . ." Still favoring his sore ribs, he turned and left the stall, carefully fastening the gate behind him as he giave the soft muzzle another rub. "Um, I made it as far as . . . as this thing here," he added, placing a hand on the hook, "before they . . . they came back." He lowered his gaze to the straw covered floor, staring at nothing. "I, um, I don't . . . don't remember much . . . after that."   
  
They all stood there, Gary, Polly, Jake and the twins, as well as Lundy and a few others who had been there that day, looking down at the spot where he had lain until the ambulance had arrived. All traces of his blood had been eliminated to keep from disturbing the other horses stabled in the building, but Gary knew the exact spot. In his mind, he could still hear the glee in Syke's voice as he prepared to amputate Gary's hand. A shiver surged through him as he pictured what could, no, would have happened if Polly and Jake hadn't arrived at that precise moment.  
  
"Why put yourself through this now?" Lundy asked sympathetically. "Why not wait 'til yo're feelin' better?"  
  
"How does that old saying go? 'If you fall off a horse, get right back on?' Because, if I don't face it," Gary told him grimly, "it'll eat at me until I can't function. I don't live here, and I don't know when, or if, I'll ever be back. So I had to do this now. It's the only chance I'll have." He took one last look around, knowing he would see a distorted version of this place in his nightmares for a long, long time to come, then led the way toward the door. "It's not much," he sighed, "but it's a start."  
  
"It's a hell of a big start," Polly told him gently. "Now, let's get you settled in and hit the road."  
  
**************** 


	3. Texas Bound

Polly helped Gary get settled onto the sofa just behind the driver's seat. Jake had thought he would be more comfortable in the queen sized bed in the rear of the coach, but the motherly tech had worried about her patient being trapped in the event of an accident. This had seemed an equitable compromise.  
  
"I'll go see what's keeping the others," Polly told him as she fastened two of the seat belts across him, then gave his pillow a final adjustment. "We need to put some distance between you and those two thugs."  
  
"I don't know why you're so worried about me" Gary murmured tiredly. "Clay's the one they were after."  
  
"But you're the one they caught," Polly reminded him. She gently traced the diminished swelling around his left eye. "What is it about you, sweetie, that draws trouble like a magnet?"  
  
"My charming personality?" Gary quipped. "Seriously, Polly, I'm okay. Go check on the others."  
  
"I'll be right back," she promised.   
  
Gary settled back with a sigh as she went to round up the rest of their 'road crew.' He decided it wouldn't hurt to take a little nap. His 'therapy session' had taken a lot out of him.  
  
No sooner had his eyes closed than Gary heard an all too familiar 'mrrowrr,' followed immediately by something plopping on his abdomen."Oww! God . . ." Biting back another cry of pain, he opened one eye cautiously, praying he was wrong. After all, he was a long way from Chicago. There he was, however, in all his orange tabby-ness, perched serenely on the arm of the sofa at Gary's feet.   
  
"One of these days," Gary grumbled quietly, "you and I need to have a talk about priorities." He picked up the Paper, tomorrow's Las Vegas Times of course, and began to scan the headlines. "I don't know how much good I can do if I keep landing in the . . . Oh, give me a break!"  
  
VEHICULAR HOMICIDE CLAIMS FIVE. A late model Winnebago Brave was run off of CR 146 by a stolen semi at approximately 9:45 A.M. The incident took place on a stretch of highway that was still under construction with few witnesses present. Three of the passengers, Gary Hobson, 36, and Pauline Gannon, 47, of Chicago, and noted rodeo star Clay Treyton, also 36, were slain on impact. Treyton had been driving at the time. Two other passengers, Jake Evans and noted songwriter Buddy Jackson, both 36, were taken to Sunrise Hospital and Medical Center where they died later of injuries sustained in the incident. Evans was another Chicagoan, while Jackson was from the Houston area. Clay Treyton's family lives in Uvalde, TX. The families of the victims were notified as soon as identifications could be made. Witnesses stated that the semi deliberately rammed the Winnebago several times, forcing the RV over a steep embankment. At this time Police are investigating the whereabouts of two escaped convicts who had been involved in an attack on one of the victims earlier this week.   
  
Moving carefully so as not to further aggravate his jinjuries, Gary twisted around until he could reach the road atlas Polly had laid on the dinette earlier. He quickly turned to the inset of the Las Vegas area. County Road 146. Where . . . ? That seemed a little out of their way. Now why would they take that particular route? At almost the same moment, he heard voices approaching the door. Thinking quickly, he stuffed the Paper down under his blanket.   
  
"I'll drive the rental back to the airport," Buddy was saying. "You can follow me in the RV and we can go on from there. We can take the bypass from there over to 146, and on to 515."  
  
"Isn't 146 under construction?" Clay asked. "There'll be a lot of 'stop 'n' go' if we take that route. Why not go down to Horizon Ridge Parkway? It's not that far out of our way."  
  
Gary stole a glance at the Paper. No change. He looked toward the cat, only to find that the mystic feline had vanished once more. 'How the hell does he keep doing that?'  
  
"There's roadblocks all over the Parkway," Buddy was saying in answer to Clay's question. "It'll be just as much hassle either way."  
  
Gary had to do something now, or they were all dead!  
  
"Um, excuse me, guys," he said, instantly getting their attention. Sometimes it actually helped, being an invalid. "Could I make a suggestion? Why don't we let Lundy or someone else take the car back for us? They've already got my credit card information. Then we can go straight from here, get on 515 or 582. It's straighter and probably quicker." With a larger police 'presence,' he secretly hoped.  
  
The twins looked at each other and shrugged.  
  
"Sounds like a plan to me," Buddy said. "I'll go talk to Lundy and give him the keys to the rental. You guys be figuring out where you wanna go for breakfast."  
  
As Clay watched his twin disappear into the crowd, Gary peeked at the Paper once more. To his relief, the headline told of an increase in tourism thanks to the opening of a new attraction at one of the casinos. Maybe they could catch it sometime. Just . . . not today.  
  
***************  
  
As he'd hoped, they'd had to pass through several police roadblocks before leaving the vicinity of Las Vegas. Which suited Gary just fine. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a semi-truck take an abrupt turn back the way it had come just before the first one.   
  
Gary drifted in and out most of that first day. Not just because the scene at the fairgrounds had taken so much out of him, which it had. Mostly he was just bored. The scenery, what he could see of it from his makeshift bed, was flat and unchanging. There was nothing but the occasional cactus and prairie dog mound to break the monotony. Small towns dotted the map here and there, but were mostly set well back from the main roads. It took them almost two hours to reach the nearest Interstate, and they were on that less than an hour before they took the turnoff for Phoenix.  
  
"We should reach Tucson by nightfall," Clay told his passengers shortly after they turned onto State Road 93. "We'll set up at an RV camp just the other side of town and start out again come first light."  
  
"Tha's good," Gary mumbled drowsily. "Could we stop at the next rest area? I need to walk around some. I'm feelin' kinda . . . stiff."  
  
"Sure thing, cuz," Buddy agreed, suppressing a yawn. He was slumped back in the recliner across the room from the sofa. "I'm feelin' a little cramped myself. This may not 've been our best idea. I'd forgotten how far it is between waterin' holes out here."  
  
"Think of how it must've been on horseback," Clay called back from the driver's seat. "It took weeks to cover what we can drive across in just a coupla days. Wagon trains were pushin' it to go twenty-five miles in a day."  
  
"Maybe so," Jake replied as he took Polly's knight, "but there's something to be said for city life. It's never boring." The two of them had the chessboard set up on the dinette table.  
  
"I thought you were gonna teach me how to play this game?" the tech grumbled. "So far, all I've done is lose."  
  
"And it takes you a little longer to lose each game," Jake assured her with a mischievous grin. "That means you're learning."  
  
"If you say so," Polly sighed, moving her rook to cover Jake's bishop. "Too bad that TV set up is all the way in the back. We could pop in a movie or something. I've always heard how 'picturesque' the west is, and it is beautiful, but there's so danged much of it! A person could lose themselves out here and not even know it until it was too late."  
  
"That happened," Clay murmured thoughtfully. "A lot. So, we gonna eat out for lunch, or pick up some fast f . . .?"  
  
"OUT!" everyone chorused. Nobody wanted to 'eat in!'  
  
"Out it is, then," their driver grinned.   
  
*************  
  
They had to stop every couple of hours and let Gary out to 'stretch his legs.' A luxury that none begrudged him as it gave each of them the same opportunity. It also gave them a chance to switch drivers. Jake was at the wheel when they finally pulled into the Gilbert Ray RV Campground late that evening. As he pulled up to the office, Clay jumped out and ran inside, emerging a few minutes later to direct them to their assigned campsite.   
  
As soon as the huge vehicle was parked and everything hooked up, Clay excused himself to finish up the paperwork at the main office.   
  
"You do that," Buddy called after his twin. "I'm gonna see if I can hitch a ride into town." He waved a hand toward a brick barbeque grill just a few feet away. "It'd be a shame to let that thing go to waste. I thought we could fire that baby up and grill a few steaks. Or I could just walk down to that little 'Mom and Pop' store we passed on the way in."  
  
"That sounds like a good idea," Jake agreed. "Want me to go with you?"  
  
"Naw," Buddy shrugged. "It's not far and I can carry what little we need. You could go ahead and get the coals hot while I'm gone. Someone left half a bag of charcoal next to the grill. I checked it out and it hasn't been there long."  
  
Jake nodded and set to work cleaning the grate. Whoever had been there last had not felt obliged to remove their debris. Half an hour later, he leaned back from his grimy task. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he left a thick streak of soot behind. He jumped, startled as something draped itself across his shoulders. 'Where did this towel . . .?' He looked up to see Polly holding out a clear plastic bucket. Inside the pail he could see a bar of soap and a washcloth.  
  
"Why don't you go down to the lake and clean up a little?" she suggested. "I can finish up here. Believe it or not, cookin' out is almost a religion in the south. Right up there with huntin', fishin', and NASCAR."  
  
"You sure?" Jake asked as he took the pail from her, shifting the towel onto one shoulder. "We don't want to let it burn down too soon."  
  
His middle-aged friend just smiled and waved him away. "Leave everything to 'Aunt Polly,' Bubba," she told him. "Just go. Get yourself cleaned up. The twins should be back soon."  
  
Jake took a few steps towards the water, then paused as he looked back at the RV. "What about Gary?" he asked. "Think he'd like to get out some?"  
  
Polly shook her head as she arranged the briquettes on the grate. "He was still asleep when I checked on 'im just now," she replied. "Let 'im rest until dinner's ready." Wordlessly, Jake nodded as he continued on his way.   
  
A few minutes later, Polly had the coals burning nicely. Knowing that it would take a few minutes for them to burn down, she went back inside to prepare the rest of the meal. After all, they had to have something besides meat. She found Gary trying to unfasten the two seatbelts she had used to secure him to the sofa.  
  
"Here," she said, reaching for the one around his legs. "Let me get that. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Pretty good," he replied, giving her an easy smile. "No nightmares. That I can recall, anyway. Are we in Tucson, already?"  
  
"Already!" Polly snorted as she helped him sit up. "It's almost 7:30. You slept right through   
Phoenix and almost into suppertime. Hungry?"  
  
"Starved," Gary admitted. He used the cane to cautiously lever himself upright, swaying unsteadily for just a moment. "Do I have time to walk around a little? I need to loosen up some."  
  
"Buddy's not back with the steaks, yet," Polly shrugged. "You should have a few minutes." She searched through the refrigerator. "You want a baked potato? I need to go ahead and put 'em on the fire, if you do." At Gary's silent nod, she set about preparing the food for the fire. "Just tell me how you like your steak and go on," she told him. "If you're not back in thirty minutes, we'll come lookin' for ya."  
  
Shaking his head and trying to smother a grin, Gary carefully descended the few steps leading outside. 'That's all I need,' he mused with an inward chuckle. 'Another Mom.'  
  
*************  
  
Emmett Wilson was a thin, gawky looking man of middle years. He and his wife were driving across the country on their first vacation since their youngest son had left for college in the fall. They had chosen this time of year on the theory that the campgrounds would be less crowded, and they'd been right. It also proved to have milder weather than in the summer, which pleased Beatrice immensely.  
  
Emmett was headed toward a small hill, which rose near the RV camp. He was hoping to find a good spot to set up his telescope, when he encountered the nice young man leaning on a cane. The other man had seemed startled, at first, staring at Emmett as if he expected the other man to attack. His free arm pressed itself across his ribs protectively. He covered his reaction quickly, but still seemed apprehensive. They struck up a cautious acquaintance when Gary, as he had introduced himself, made appreciative remarks about Emmett's stargazing equipment.   
  
"If you don't mind my asking," Emmett commented after a few minutes, "what happened to your face? Were you in a fight?"  
  
"S-something like that," Gary shrugged, wincing. "More of a mugging. Um, you guys planning on staying here a few days, or moving on right away?"  
  
'A mugging,' Emmett thought. 'That explains it.' "Beatrice wants to take in some of the local attractions," the smaller man replied with a sigh. "I wanted to head straight up to Flagstaff, but," he shrugged, "we've got plenty of time. You?"  
  
"Just passing through," the younger man shrugged. "Well, I'd better head back. My friends are probably getting worried about me by now. Nice meeting you, Emmett."  
  
"Same here," Emmett grinned. "Take care, Gary."   
  
Emmett continued toward the hill on a path that led him past the main office as his new friend turned to go back the way he had come. A few minutes later, he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path ahead. To his surprise, a familiar figure stepped around a bend in the trail and into the safety light. His clothes were a little different, he wore a dark colored Stetson and he was walking without assistance of any kind, otherwise he was identical in size and build to the man Emmett had just parted company with.   
  
"Gary?"  
  
The other man looked around, grinning shyly as he met Emmett's startled gaze. "You must've met my cousin," he shrugged. "I've been told we bear a strong resemblance. Clay Treyton," he added, sticking out his hand. Emmett shook it hesitantly, his mouth still open in an astonished 'Oh!'  
  
"Strong is an understatement," Emmett replied with a shake of his head. "Wow! Were you two mugged by the same guys? He looked a little more beat up than you do."  
  
Clay shook his head sadly. "Is that what he said happened?" he asked. "Gary wasn't mugged. Some old . . . 'acquaintances' of mine tried to take him apart. He just got out of the hospital this morning. Don't mention it to 'im, though. He's tryin' real hard to put it behind him. We're just lettin' 'im work through it at his own pace."  
  
"Man!" Emmett sighed. "I'm glad you said something. My wife is a psychologist, and she knows all about 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.' I was just thinking he should see someone, because of the mugging. Knowing it was deliberate . . .and so fresh! Maybe you'd like her to talk with him?"  
  
"We're keepin' a close eye on him," Clay shrugged. "So far, he's handlin' this better than most. Besides, we're headin' out pretty early. Say," he added, waving a hand at Emmett's gear, "you thinkin' of settin' up on that little hill behind the park?"  
  
"That was my plan," the little man admitted. "Why?"  
  
"I was askin' the manager about that just now," the wrangler replied. "Gary's got a getup sorta like that back in Chicago, only not as fancy. I thought I'd fix up a little surprise for 'im later, but we're not gonna have time. That hill is private property, though, with signs posted everywhere. The manager suggested settin' up in a clearing down by the lake. You just follow this path back the way you came and take the left fork. He said you get a real good view from there."  
  
"Thanks," Emmett said, shifting his burden slightly. "You saved me a long hike for nothing. The left fork?"   
  
At Clay's nod, he turned and headed back the way he had come. Clay accompanied him as far as the fork, where they finally parted company. Emmett was still musing over how much the cousins resembled each other when he reached the clearing. It was a huge area, covering at least an acre and a half. Picnic tables were scattered here and there around a couple of huge steel drums that had been converted into smoker/grills. A trail at one end of the clearing led to a little bluff overlooking the lake.   
  
Emmett found what he considered the ideal spot. It was a little over ten feet in from the water's edge and almost perfectly level. He was just setting down his burden when he became aware of splashing noises accompanied by muttered cursing. Curious, he looked around, quickly spotting a darkly silhouetted figure kneeling at the water's edge.  
  
"What does it take to get this stuff off?" someone was grumbling? He dipped his hands into a nearby bucket, scrubbing his hands together briskly. "What the hell've they been cooking in that thing?"  
  
"You must've been cleaning one of the grills," Emmett chuckled, startling the other man. Stepping forward, he pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and shone it on the kneeling figure. As the light revealed the other man's startled features, Emmett almost dropped the light. "Gary? You . . . you can't be Clay. I just left him on the trail a few minutes ago! And what . . . what happened to your bruises?"  
  
The other man stood slowly, both hands open at his sides. "I'm Jake Evans," he said. "I wasn't in that fight. Do you have anything that'll cut through this crap? This soap Polly gave me just isn't up to the job."  
  
Emmett stepped in closer, shining the light over the other man's features. The resemblance to the other two was incredible! "Um, y-you might check your supplies for one of those citrus based cleansers," he suggested. "They work pretty good. Or some gasoline will do in a pinch. Man, you guys must be clones! There's no way for three people to look that much alike and not be related."  
  
"You don't know the half of it," Jake chuckled. "Household cleanser or gasoline, huh? Well, it's got to beat going around with this God awful crap on my hands," he added, holding his still grimy hands up to the light.  
  
Emmett started to say something else when he heard voices coming down the trail. A moment later, two men emerged from the sparse undergrowth.   
  
"Jake?" one of them called. "You plannin' on makin' a career outta washin' yo're hands?"  
  
The little man shone his light on the two newcomers, expecting to see one of them leaning on a cane. Both men stood straight and without support. Both looked enough alike to be twins. Emmett was beginning to feel a headache coming on. This was not possible! Not four of them!  
  
"Hey, Emmett," one of them said with a wave. "I see you've already met Jake. This here's my brother, Buddy."  
  
'Yes,' Emmett decided. 'I'm definitely getting a headache.'  
  
*******************  
  
"Poor guy was lookin' a little green around the gills," Buddy chuckled as he cut another bite out of his steak. "I think he's gonna be havin' a long talk with his wife, the psychiatrist, tonight."  
  
"She's a psychologist," Clay corrected his brother.   
  
"Psychiatrist, psychologist," Buddy shrugged. "What's the difference?"  
  
"One can use drugs," Polly explained, "the other can't. She could follow our back trail 'n' pickup a lot of business, though. That steak okay, Gary? You've hardly touched it."  
  
Gary sat back, pushing his plate away with a weary sigh. "Guess I wasn't as hungry as I thought," he told her. Retrieving his cane, he gingerly levered himself to his feet. "I'm going down to the lake for a bit. A-anyone care to . . . ?" His words tapered off as he shifted uncomfortably.  
  
"Give me a second," Polly replied around a bite of potato. "I need to walk off this meal, anyway. My jeans are gettin' way too tight." She washed down the morsel with a sip of water, then arose from the picnic table to join her friend. "You guys mind cleanin' up?"  
  
"Gotcha covered, Polly," Clay nodded. "Ya'll behave, now." He laughed as Polly gave him a light cuff on the side of his head.   
  
"Idjit," she chuckled. "We won't be long."  
  
The twins and Jake kept up a patter of small talk until they were sure the others were out of earshot.  
  
"Gary's not lookin' so good," Buddy murmured. "Does he seem . . . nervous to you?"  
  
"I think he's goin' through some of that 'Post Traumatic' whatever Emmett was talkin' about," Clay remarked grimly. "He was actin' real skittish when he got back from his walk earlier tonight. Now he wants to go out again, like he's got to prove somethin' to himself."  
  
Jake took a second to swallow his food before joining in the conversation. "From what you've told me," he said, "Gary's been through more trauma in the past eighteen months than most people have in a lifetime. He's lucky just to be alive."  
  
"Amen to that," Buddy replied, shaking his head sadly. "Bad enough to be attacked in broad daylight. He must be twice as jumpy at night, when he can't see it comin'. Wish we could've caught those two before we left. It might've set his mind at ease some."  
  
"Just wish there was some way we could help him," Clay grumbled. "I don't like feelin' this . . . useless."  
  
"All we can do is be there," Jake told them kindly. "Gary has to work through this on his own. He's already taken the biggest step, when he went back to where it happened. Now, he just has to convince himself that he's really survived it. That he's going to be okay."  
  
"Maybe then he can convince us," Buddy mumbled.  
  
****************  
  
They walked down to the clearing in companionable silence, Polly linking her right arm through Gary's left, being careful not to put any extra stress on his injured ribs. She didn't want to push him. Having worked at her profession for almost twenty years, she had learned a few things about stress and how it affected people. Gary had been pushing the limits on PTSD for as long as she had known him. He always managed to come to terms with whatever demons haunted him, but always in his own way. In his own good time. This time would be no different.  
  
Gary led her to a bench facing the lake. A fingernail sliver of moon cast sparkling highlights on the wind driven wavelets. The same wind created a gentle murmur in the surrounding trees. They sat there for a few minutes, staring out at the water and not saying a word. Finally . . .   
  
"Why are you here, Polly?"  
  
The question, coming out of the blue like that, confused her. "S'cuse me?"  
  
"Why did you follow us out to Las Vegas?" he asked. "I thought you couldn't get the time off."  
  
"Oh, that." Polly shrugged, leaning back and stretching her legs out with a sigh. "I had a dream."  
  
"A dream?" Gary asked, giving her an incredulous look. "You flew all the way from Chicago because of a dream?" He sat forward, staring out at the lake. "Must've been a real corker. You have these dreams a lot?"  
  
"Since I was a kid," his friend admitted. "I seem to . . . 'connect' . . . sorta , with certain people. Not everyone, and not all the time. Whenever I make this . . . 'connection', then I seem to know when they need help. It's not an 'all the time,' 24/7 thing," she elaborated. "I guess you could just say I hit the 'high spots.' Anyway, I had this dream that you were in trouble. That's all. I woke up feelin' like I had to get out here yesterday. So, I hopped the first flight to 'Vegas, and there was Jake. We'd finished up all the paperwork the day before, and he'd had his seat booked a week in advance. It was just luck we got there when we did. Five minutes later . . ." She hugged herself and shivered as the image of light glinting off that knife blade flashed through her mind.   
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed. "I know. Did I ever thank you two for saving my life?"  
  
"We figured you'd get around to it when the shock wore off," Polly replied with a grin he felt more than saw in the dim moonlight. "So, you ready to talk about tonight?"  
  
Gary was instantly on alert. "What about tonight?"  
  
"You left out for your walk feelin' pretty good," she reminded him. "When you came back, you were white as a sheet. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Somethin' spooked ya."  
  
Silence. Polly looked up at her young friend, who sat hunched over as if trying to shrink in on himself. 'Too soon,' she thought. 'It's still too fresh in his mind.'  
  
"No big deal," she said, stretching lazily. "Whenever you're ready. You're a Virgo, aren't you?"  
  
"Wha, um, yeah," he replied, confused by the sudden change of topic. "Why?"  
  
"Can you see it from here this time of year?" Polly asked, waving at the gleaming vault above them. "I've never been able to pick out anything but the Dippers and Orion."  
  
"Really?" he asked, clearly surprised. "I had you pegged for the 'outdoorsy' type. You've never laid out under the stars and picked out all the constellations?"  
  
"Are you kiddin'?" she snorted. "I was one of five rambunctious young'uns. My folks never had time for things like that. Besides, we moved around too much when I was little. We missed out on all that 'bonding' stuff parents used to do with their kids."  
  
A slow grin erased the wariness from his muddy green eyes as he accepted her invitation to simply 'kick back and relax.' "Then let's see what we can do about upgrading your education," he told her. "Let's start with what you already know."  
  
As they talked, picking out the known constellations and making up outrageous, silly, names for new ones, he was soon able to set aside the fear and apprehension that had plagued him earlier. Maybe having another 'Mom' along wasn't such a bad idea after all.  
  
******************  
  
"So what did you two kids talk about last night?" Buddy asked Polly as he guided the RV back onto the interstate. He half turned in the driver's seat to give her an amused look. "That 'short walk' certainly took longer than a few minutes."  
  
"Are you insinuatin' that we were up to somethin'?" his passenger asked in a slightly 'dangerous' tone. "'Cause, if you are, need I remind you that Gary and I are the only ones here certified in CPR?"  
  
"Hunh?" Buddy snorted, wondering where she was going with that remark. "What's that got to do with what we were talkin' about?"  
  
"Just thought I'd mention that Gary's in no shape to be bringin' you back after I strangle you," she told him. "He needed company. That's all. No pressure. No strings. Just something to get his mind off things for a while."  
  
"So you two just sat and talked about nothin' for two hours?" Buddy asked skeptically. "You really expect me to buy that?"  
  
"What you believe or don't is your problem," she sighed, staring straight ahead. "Just don't go raggin' Gary about it. When he's ready to let us in, he will. 'Til then, all we can do is sit and listen. Last night, he needed a friend. So we talked about astronomy for a while. He's really a pretty sharp cookie, once you hit on somethin' that piques his interest. You should try gettin' to know him a little better. You might find you two have a lot more in common than just your good looks."  
  
Thoroughly chastised, Buddy turned his eyes back to the road ahead. "Do ya think he's gonna be okay?" he asked quietly. "I mean, he's been through a lot. More 'n' I like to think about. Is he gonna be able to bounce back from this?"  
  
"I think so," Polly assured him confidently. "Bad as this was, what he went through this time last year was a lot worse. It took time, but he got past it." She looked back to where her patient was again strapped to the sofa. Gary was propped up on a couple of pillows, trying to read a novel she had picked up for him before they left Las Vegas. "He'll get past this, too."  
  
*****************  
  
They took their time, again stopping every two hours or so to stretch their legs. This was more for Gary's benefit than anyone else. In this manner, they reached Las Cruces, New Mexico by lunch time. Pulling up at a secluded diner south of town, Clay assisted Gary as the five of them entered the little eatery and seated themselves at a table in the back. Ignoring the open stares of the other patrons, they ordered their meal, talking quietly until it was served.  
  
"We'll be in Sonora by this evenin'," Buddy told them as he dug into a big bowl of chili. "From there we can stay on the main road south to Del Rio and then to Uvalde, or we could take the back roads through Rock Springs and save almost thirty-five miles. Not that it'll be any quicker," he warned them. "These back roads can be pretty rough in spots, and there's a lot more 'stop 'n' go' traffic. Either way, we can be there before lunch time tomorrow."  
  
"If we take it slow 'n' easy," Polly mused, trying not to look directly at Gary, "we should be all right taking the shorter route. On the other hand, there's more likely to be rest areas along the main roads."  
  
"Are we in all that big of a hurry?" Clay grumbled as he sullenly stirred his food. "I vote for the main road. Uvalde ain't goin' nowhere."  
  
Alerted by the odd tone of his voice, the other four eyed him speculatively.   
  
"You wanna talk about it?" Jake asked. "It'll give us something to gossip about besides Gary."  
  
"Yes," Gary was quick to agree. "Let's talk about something else. Please." He was stirring his spoon in a bowl of chicken soup. For some reason, that was the only thing on the menu that had appealed to him. One look at the large variety of 'Southwestern' and Mexican foods, and his stomach had done a slow roll. Maybe it was just as well that he had been unable to touch his steak the night before. "You, um, you've kinda dropped hints, now and then, that you and your family are having . . . problems."  
  
"No problems," Clay shrugged. "We just haven't spoken since a coupla years before I went to prison. They didn't wanna have anything t'do with me before I hit it big on the rodeo circuit, and I didn't see any point in tryin' to change their minds after. No big deal."  
  
"But you said you talked to your mom before she died," Buddy reminded him. "That she told you about me then."  
  
Clay poked at his food dispiritedly before answering. "That . . . that wasn't entirely true," he admitted hesitantly. "Her . . . lawyer sent me a package a few months after . . . It was the first I knew she was even sick. Anyway, it was a set of diaries she'd been keepin' since she run off. That's how I found out . . . everything. About you, me, the cancer. All of it. I was still kinda . . . numb, just knowin' she was gone. I guess . . . I guess I was feelin' cheated that I wasn't given the chance to say good-bye. I-I know I was a real . . . but she was my mom! They could've found some way to let me know."  
  
Buddy impulsively placed a hand on his brother's arm, giving it a rough shake. "I guess they didn't think about that," he murmured sadly. "Sometimes people can't get past their own anger." He grinned ruefully as he sat back once more. "I should know. I held a grudge against Dusty for three years before it finally sunk in that I was the one who screwed up. Once I got past that, I was able to get on with my life. It didn't make up for everything I missed out on because of bein' 'blackballed,' but it got me back on the right path."  
  
Feeling uncomfortable on his cousins' behalf, Gary glanced around the room. He found that almost every eye in the place was aimed their way, which only made him even more edgy.   
  
"Do, um, do you think we could finish up and go?" he asked nervously, trying not to stare back at anyone. "I-I'm beginning to feel like the star of a freak show."  
  
Polly, too, gave the other patrons a quick glance. She got a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she bit back a grin. Suddenly, she stood up and directed an angry glare around the room.   
  
"Didn't yo're mamas ever teach you it ain't polite to stare?" she growled at the curious on-lookers as she snatched up the check. Stalking toward the register, she continued to grumble just loud enough to be heard. "You'd think there was somethin' wrong with a woman takin' her boys out for a little R&R." Polly winked at the cashier as she paid the check, adding a generous tip. She then led the exodus out of the diner, apparently ignoring all the slack-jawed stares.  
  
"What the hell was that all about?" Jake asked. "Do you have any idea what those people are probably thinking right now?"  
  
"Yup," Polly grinned. "Instead of ponderin' the uncanny resemblance, they're wonderin' at the fortitude it took to raise the four of you." She glanced back, relieved to see Clay hovering protectively near his cousin. "Now let's get this show back on the road, fellas. Before I embarrass myself any further."  
  
"Embarrass, my foot," Buddy grumbled. "You enjoyed that scene!"  
  
Polly turned to him with a feigned look of surprise. "Why Buddy! Whatever gave you that idea? I wasn't enjoying that one bit!" She spun on her heel and continued toward their vehicle. "I was lovin' it."  
  
**************  
  
The trip to Sonora was long, tedious and uneventful. They set up at an RV camp a few miles south of town early that evening. After a light supper, Polly and Jake helped Gary get settled into the Queen-sized bed in the back.  
  
"You guys don't have to keep tucking me in," Gary protested as Polly pulled the covers up to his chest. "I'm a big boy. I can even tie my own shoelaces."  
  
"Not right now, you can't," Jake reminded him. "You can't bend that far, pal." The young banker looked over at their 'house mother.' "We should probably find a doctor tomorrow," he reminded her. "Buddy and Clay need to get their stitches out."  
  
"Got it covered," Polly assured him. "The manager suggested we stop in at Loma Alta on our way south. It's an itty bitty place, but it has an emergency clinic. Nothin' fancy, but it gets the job done. We can be there in an hour."  
  
"So we've decided to go stick to the main roads?" Jake asked as he adjusted Gary's pillow. "Good. I wasn't thrilled about the idea of those back roads."  
  
Polly shot him an amused look as she smoothed the covers. "The main roads are in better repair," she admitted, "and it's not that much further. We can still be in Uvalde by lunch time." She jumped slightly when a hand was suddenly waved in front of her face.  
  
"Remember me?" Gary grumbled. "The guy you two are tucking in? Do I get to join in the conversation?"  
  
"No," Polly told him, placing the remote in his hand. "You get to watch TV for a while, then hit the sack. Ah! No arguments. I'll be back to check on you before I turn in. If you need anything before that, use this." She laid a small two-way radio on the nightstand.   
  
"Fine," Gary sighed. "So who's bunking with me tonight?"  
  
"I am." Jake shrugged. "Unless you'd rather change roommates."  
  
"N-no," Gary was quick to assure his friend. "I was just wondering . . . wh-where do you sleep, Polly?"  
  
"With the exception of the recliner," she told him with a smile, "every piece of furniture in this rolling hotel folds out into a bed. I sleep very comfortably . . . and alone, thank you very much."  
  
Gary's face took on a definite crimson hue as the implications of his innocent question sank in.  
  
"N-no!" he protested. "Th-that's not . . . I only meant . . . No way did I . . ." He flopped back with a pained grimace, unable to find a graceful way out of his faux pas. "I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean that the way it sounded."  
  
"I know," Polly replied with a gentle chuckle. "Now, get some rest, Gary. Tomorrow we meet Clay's family for the first time and we'd all like to look our best. G'night."  
  
"G'night, Polly," Gary murmured as he pulled the covers over his still flaming features. "Just let me know when it's safe to come out."  
  
**************  
  
"Will you stop scratching at that?" Jake admonished one of the twins as they exited the tiny clinic. "You're gonna make it bleed."  
  
"It itches," Clay grumbled as he stuffed both hands in his pockets. "Gettin' the stitches pulled out only made it worse. How much longer to Del Rio?"  
  
"Less than an hour," Polly assured him as she studied the road atlas. "Then another hour to our destination. You feelin' all right, Clay?"  
  
"I'm fine," he muttered sullenly. "Let's go. The sooner we're there, the sooner we can leave."  
  
"With that kinda attitude," the tech grumbled sarcastically, "it's no wonder they're so glad to see you."  
  
***************  
  
A little after ten o'clock Clay stopped the RV in front of a rather large, two-story ranch-style log home. Off to their left was a large horse barn attached to an even larger corral. Two golden palominos were prancing playfully in the enclosure.  
  
"Welcome to 'Ranchero Treyton,' folks," Clay murmured. He sat there, staring out of the windshield, until the front door of the house opened. A tall, lean, gray haired man stepped out onto the front porch, staring back at the vehicle. Clay stood up from the driver's seat with a sigh and moved to help Polly remove the restraints holding Gary to the sofa. "Dad's home, at least," he told them. "Most likely, Claire and her kids are around somewhere. The others are probably out tendin' the stock. They'll be here in time for lunch. That's when things'll get . . ."   
  
"Ugly?" Gary ventured hesitantly, as he gingerly rose to his feet. "If it's that bad, we don't have to do this."  
  
Clay looked over to where his brother was staring anxiously out the side window at the house. "Yes, we do," he replied softly. "Buddy has a right to meet the rest of his family." He held on to Gary as his cousin found his balance. "C'mon. This won't hurt . . . much." He paused in the doorway, looking back at the others. "Ya'll might wanna let me go first," he cautioned them. "We may not be on such good terms, but I don't wanna give my dad a heart attack."  
  
"Good point," Jake winced. "We'll wait here." He helped Gary back to the sofa, then took a seat beside him.   
  
"Are you sure about this, Clay?" Buddy asked. "It might not be so bad if the two of us . . ."  
  
Clay just shook his head sadly before turning to his twin with a grim look. "Please, Buddy? Let me go first, break it to 'im gently."  
  
Reluctantly, Buddy nodded, sitting back down in the recliner. He was careful to keep low, so as not to be seen from the window.  
  
Clay continued down the narrow steps and onto the driveway. Pausing, just for a moment, to gather his failing courage, he walked around the front of the vehicle to face his father. He stood there, not saying a word as he waited for the older man to make the first move.  
  
"You're lookin' good, boy," Dwight Treyton observed neutrally.   
  
"Good to see you, too, Pa," Clay replied. He shifted his feet nervously as the silence stretched between them. Finally, "Hear you took first place at the county fair again. What was it? The Black Angus?"  
  
"Thought that would be a bit beneath your notice these days," the older man commented dryly. "What with you bein' a big rodeo star and all."  
  
Clay bit back an angry retort. 'We're here for Buddy,' he reminded himself. 'I can hang in there one day, at least.' "I'm not here to start a fight," he said out loud. "You and . . . and Ma . . . you never . . . Why didn't you tell me I had a brother, Pa?"  
  
Startled, the older man looked at him like he had lost his mind. "You been throwed one time too many, boy?" he asked. "Why would we need to tell ya about Jamie or Phil? You were there when they were . . ."  
  
"I've got Ma's diaries, Pa!" Clay snapped angrily. "I-I know about my twin, him bein' stolen, everything. What I want to know is . . . why didn't ya'll tell me while she was still alive? Why . . . why couldn't ya'll just . . . just talk to me? Why did I have to find out about all this when it was too late to ask any questions? Do ya'll hate me that much?"  
  
Stunned, Dwight Treyton slowly stepped down off the porch. "Is that what you think?" he asked. "That we hated you?"  
  
"What else was I supposed to think?" Clay's tone was bitter, confused. "Nothin' I did was right. No . . . no matter how hard I tried, you two always looked at me like . . .like somethin' was missin'. Like I was always comin' up short. I had to find out from Uncle Dave that . . . that you weren't my real Pa. You couldn't even tell me that!"  
  
The older man took another hesitant step. "We . . . we wanted to spare you that," he confessed. "I thought there wasn't any need for you to know that . . . that you were . . . that they were never really . . ."  
  
"That I was a bastard?" Clay finished bitterly. "I thought that was why ya'll acted the way you did. Th-that she looked at me and saw some . . . some monster she'd conceived in sin." Angrily he looked away, hands balled into fists at his side. "Why couldn't you just tell me she was still grievin'?" he asked plaintively. "Just . . . just knowin' why would've helped me understand. It . . . it would've been . . . been lettin' me in, instead of shuttin' me out."  
  
Hesitantly, Clay's father walked up to his stepson. "That's the most you've said to me in almost ten years," he murmured softly. "We didn't hate you, Clay. If you've really read all yo're mama's diaries, then you have to know that."  
  
"I do," Clay sighed, "now. Would've been nice if I'd known before . . . Why couldn't ya'll even let me know she was sick? I'd 've been here in a heartbeat."  
  
It was Dwight's turn to look hurt and confused. "I did send word," he protested. "Ellie told me she left word with yo're girlfriend. What was her name? Belinda! That was it. Belinda Travis."  
  
Clay ducked his head as understanding sank in. "Pa," he sighed, "I've had a lot of girlfriends, but none of them was named Belinda. Travis or otherwise. I think we need to talk with Ellie." He glanced back as the RV's door opened just a crack. "But first, there's someone I think you need to meet. Mama mentioned, in her diaries, that she had reason to believe my twin was still alive."  
  
"I know," his stepfather sighed. "It was all that kept her goin' near the end. I didn't want to be the one to tell her it was a lost cause. If the baby was in that car when it wrecked, there wasn't a chance in Hell of it surviving."  
  
"Then you must've been lookin' in the wrong direction," Clay told him with a sly grin. "Buddy! It's safe to come out, now." As his twin eased out of the vehicle, Clay turned back to face his stepfather. "I ran into a few interestin' people in Chicago recently," he said. "First of all, let me introduce Mr. Buddy Jackson, a songwriter with several tunes on the country top forty. He's also my missing twin."  
  
As Buddy stepped around to the front of the vehicle, Dwight Treyton fell back a step in surprise. "Oh my Lord," he murmured. "She was right all along." He stepped forward once more until he was able to reach out a hand and touch his long lost stepson's face. "You two could be two peas from the same pod."  
  
"Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Treyton," Buddy grinned shyly, shaking his hand. "Um, I guess I get to introduce the others. Clay 'n' me didn't just run into each other. We met up with the help of some of Mama's folks in Chicago. This is Gary Hobson and Jake Evans. Gary's kin on his mama's side, and we ain't yet figgered where Jake fits into this mess."  
  
Stunned, the older Treyton stared as the other two stepped into view. Gary was leaning heavily on his cane, with Jake lending additional support on his left. "H-how do you do, Mr. Treyton," Gary greeted their host nervously. "Nice . . . nice to meet you. Clay's told us almost nothing about you."  
  
"And what little he has was all bad, I'll bet," the older man chuckled. "If this don't beat all! Damn! You went out and got mixed up with one o' those copyin' machines, boy? You forgot to tell it when to quit!" He looked the four men over from head to toe, finally turning to get a closer look at Gary. "I've seen men in better shape after a stampede," he muttered, wincing in sympathy as he noticed the younger man's battered features. "Did you at least get a steak outta the deal?"  
  
"N-no, sir," Gary stammered. "I was, um . . . C-could we talk about something else? Please?"  
  
"Sure thing, boy," Dwight quickly agreed. "Let's get you inside where . . .Hello?"  
  
"Howdy," Polly grinned at the older man. "The boy's seem to've forgotten their manners.  
I'm Polly Gannon, a friend of Gary's. Pleased to meet you."  
  
"Likewise," Treyton replied, craning his neck to look around the RV. "Anybody else in there, or did ya'll finally run outta room?"  
  
"We have room for one more," Polly replied mischievously, "but we couldn't get 'im to fit us into his schedule." She placed a hand on Gary's arm. "You need to walk around a bit first, Gary?"  
  
"I'm okay," he assured her. "Let's not keep the man waiting."  
  
****************  
  
"Claire 'n' her husband will be back shortly," Dwight said to his guests. He gave his stepson a pitying look. "She's still riled about you bustin' up her weddin' reception, Clay. You might have to eat a little crow on that one."  
  
"Believe it or not," Clay winced, "I figured that out for myself. I just hope the wedding present I picked up for her in El Paso will make up for it. A little bit, anyways. Where 're Jamie, Ellie and Phil?"  
  
"Ellie's in town," the older man replied. "She should be back any minute. Jamie and Phil are out checkin' the fence line. They may not be back 'til this evening." His eyes kept drifting from one man to the next. "If this don't beat all. And none o' you had any idea the others existed?"  
  
"Not a clue," Jake chuckled nervously. "Poor Gary was up to his neck in trouble at the time," he added with a sidelong glance at his fellow Chicagoan. "By the time I entered the picture, he was a nervous wreck. Bolted from my office like he'd just seen the Devil himself."  
  
"That's enough, Jake," Polly admonished him. "Gary's been reminded of that a little too often for my taste. We're supposed to be helpin' him relax."  
  
"Thank you," Gary murmured wearily. They had settled him into an overstuffed easy chair. The others were arranged on the sofa with Dwight facing them from another easy chair. "I'd only been out of the hospital less than a week when we met Jake," he explained to their host. "I, um, I wasn't at my best."  
  
"If you'll pardon my sayin'," Dwight commented dryly, "it looks like they let you out a day or so too soon. What were you in the hospital for?"  
  
"Um, collapsed lung," Gary replied softly. "At first. C-complications set in, and . . . and I was in there for . . . for quite a while."  
  
Buddy, who was sipping on a glass of iced tea, almost choked at the word 'complications.' A sharp look and a headshake from Polly cautioned him to silence. She was right, he realized. Dragging up recent history would do Gary little good. If he wanted the story told, he should be the one to tell it.  
  
Their silent exchange didn't go unnoticed by the others. Gary flashed his friends a tired smile before he continued.  
  
"That was a few weeks ago," he elaborated. "We came out to Las Vegas . . . to relax," he added with a dry chuckle. "So, of course, I was attacked by two goons who put me back in the hospital. Just got out day before yesterday." In spite of having awakened only recently, Gary's eyes were beginning to grow heavy once more. A fact that was not lost on his self-appointed protector.  
  
"You wanna go lie down a while, Gary?" she asked in genuine concern.  
  
"I'm okay," he assured her. "Besides, I've been lying down most of this past week. What I need is just to . . . to walk around a little."  
  
Dwight Treyton pushed himself to his feet. "Then let me show you folks my humble spread," he suggested. "Clay, you might like to see the new riding stock. Ellie talked me into investing in show jumpers, of all things. Got a coupla two-year-olds that she's tryin' to break."  
  
Clay and Buddy both moved to help their cousin to his feet, but Polly waved them off. "Let me see those wrists first," she said. With a martyred sigh, Gary held up both arms for her inspection. "You've been leanin' pretty heavy on that cane," she reminded him as she peeled back the bandage on his right wrist. "Just wanted to make sure you haven't put too much stress on those skin grafts." Satisfied with what she saw, Polly replaced the gauze wrapping, then repeated the process on the left. "I reckon you'll do," she finally reported. "You can help him up, now."  
  
The twins carefully took hold of Gary's elbows, giving him the leverage he needed to get to his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment as he fought to regain his balance. Finally, he nodded to indicate that he was okay. Taking his cane in his right hand, the left hugged up against his injured ribs, Gary stepped away from the chair.  
  
"It's okay, guys," he murmured quietly, embarrassed by the attention. "I can make it from here. L-let's not keep your dad waiting."  
  
Mr. Treyton led the way toward the stables, his unusual visitors straggling behind him. Polly hung back slightly, keeping pace with the disabled member of her party. As a result, she was in a better position to see the look on Gary's face as they neared the cavernous doorway. The closer he got, the more it appeared he wanted to be somewhere else. Despite his little 'therapy session' back in Las Vegas, Gary was still carrying a huge load of fear and apprehension.  
  
"You don't have to go in there," she told him. "The others will understand."  
  
"That's not why I'm doing it, Polly," he sighed. "Running from it won't help. Might as well just jump right in and get it over with."   
  
Gary stepped through the open doorway with barely noticeable hesitation. Together with Polly, he hobbled up to join the others at the enclosed paddock. Dwight was holding his open hand out to a spirited roan, two sugar cubes balanced on his outstretched palm.   
  
"She calls this one Star Dancer," he was saying as the young stallion nuzzled his hand. "I just call 'im Danny. He seems to like that better. This other fella, here, is Zephyr's Dream. Zeke to his friends. C'mon, Zeke," he added, turning to the other stall and holding out more sweets. "Say 'hello' to the nice folks."  
  
Gary had felt the walls closing in almost as soon as he had stepped out of the sunlight. The playful prancing of the big roan had not helped. Chill beads of sweat formed a thin film on his brow as he again heard, and felt, the thud of steel shod hooves striking soft flesh. A cold shiver ran up his spine as he turned away from the energetic colt. 'Enough!' he told himself. 'It's over. Time to move on.' He had almost convinced himself . . . until Zeke strode up to the rail of his enclosure.  
  
Zeke was a sleek, energetic bay with a triangular white blaze running from his forelock to his muzzle. Liquid brown orbs met Gary's mud puddle green eyes. Instantly a tight, constricting band wrapped itself around his chest, cutting off his breath. He stood there, frozen, unable to even look away! The unsuspecting colt stretched his head over the rail, sniffing at Gary's pockets in search of hidden sweets. Breath coming in shallow gasps, Gary just stood there, the sound of thudding hoof beats echoing through his mind.  
  
"Gary? Are you okay?"  
  
Startled, Gary turned to find Jake standing at his elbow. The other man was watching him with open concern.  
  
"Wha, um, yeah. Yeah, I'm . . . I'm okay," Gary stammered. "I just . . . just need some air. Excuse me." In spite of his pronounced limp, he practically ran from the stables.  
  
"Is something wrong?" Dwight asked as Gary stumbled past him.  
  
Mumbling curses under his breath, Clay started to follow his cousin only to be brought up short by a hand on his arm.  
  
"Give him a minute," Polly cautioned him.   
  
"We shouldn't 've let him come in here," Clay grumbled irritably. "He's . . ."  
  
"A big boy who knows his own mind," she gently reminded him. "He knew what to expect. Gary's been through this more than a few times. Just give him a chance to get his head together, then I'll go see what he needs."  
  
"Would someone mind tellin' me what just happened?" Dwight asked impatiently. "What's wrong with your cousin?"  
  
Polly glanced around at the others, then back toward the opening that Gary had just disappeared through. "Remember what Gary told you about being attacked in 'Vegas? Jake and I found him in a stable pretty much like this one." She glanced over at Zeke. "He'd been beaten within an inch of his life and trampled. By a horse that looked a lot like Ol' Zeke, here. You guys can fill in the details, if you like," she told her friends. "Gary's had enough t . . ."  
  
Polly was interrupted by a shrill cry. Alarmed, they all charged out of the building to see Gary, his back against the corral railing, staring down at an irate young woman who was sprawled in the dirt. His left arm was clutched tightly against his side, a look that bordered on animal panic on his still discolored features. He also looked as if he regretted having eaten breakfast. As his friends rushed to help, Gary turned suddenly and eliminated that problem all over the base of the nearest fencepost.  
  
Halfway to the corral, Clay stopped to stare at the young woman who was muttering angrily as she struggled to her feet.  
  
"Clay Treyton," she grumbled, staring at the wretchedly ill figure. "You are still the most ill mannered, disgusting, lowlife, slimy son of a . . ."  
  
"Nice to see you, too, sis," Clay remarked acidly.  
  
The young blonde almost fell over again as she spun to face this new intrusion. "C-Clay?" she stammered. Confused, she looked from her brother to the man kneeling by the fence, then back to Clay. Only then did she see the two coming up behind him. "I-I thought . . . He looked . . . But you . . . What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.  
  
Polly, meanwhile, had rushed to Gary's side. She supported him as he continued to empty the contents of his stomach. In between bouts, he mumbled tearful apologies.   
  
"Shh," Polly told him softly. "S'okay, Gary. Everything's okay. What happened?" Wordlessly, he just shook his head before giving in to the nausea once more. "Never mind, hon. It'll keep." She looked helplessly at the others. "Jake? Could you give me a hand with him? I can give him a shot for the nausea, but it'll knock him out. Best if we get him lyin' down first."  
  
Over Gary's half-hearted protests, they helped him to his feet and led him towards the RV. Clay's sister stared after the trio as they passed her.  
  
"Will someone please answer my question?" she asked. "Who are these guys, and why do they all look like Clay?"  
  
Tearing his eyes away from the retreating trio, Clay turned to face his sister. "Ellie," he said, laying a hand on his twin's shoulder. "I'd like you to meet your long lost brother. Buddy Jackson, this is our sister, Ellen. The one who couldn't find it in her heart to pass on a simple message to let me know our mother was dying," he added bitterly. He nodded toward the RV, leveling a heated glare at his youngest sister. "So what happened?"  
  
Dusting off the seat of her jeans, Ellie returned his glare with equal hostility. "I thought he was you," she grumbled. "He was leanin' on the fence, lookin' kinda green. So I . . ."  
  
"Thought you'd sneak up on 'im," Clay finished. He looked down at the riding crop at her feet. "You hit him with that, didn't you. Nice way to say hello, sis." Shaking his head sadly, he looked at his stepfather. "Is it any wonder I haven't been home for so long?"  
  
"Ellie," Dwight sighed. "Tell me what happened. How did you end up flat on your keester?"  
  
Ellie Treyton shot her half brother a sullen look. "It was like he said," she admitted. "I popped him on the shoulder with my quirt and he hooked my ankles with that damned cane before I could blink." She tilted her chin towards the mobile home. "So who're the other two?" she asked. "And the woman. She your latest girlfriend? Little long in the tooth for you, ain't she?"  
  
"That's enough, young lady," Dwight told her in a tightly controlled voice. "We need to have a talk about his other girlfriend. The one that never existed."  
  
Ellie at least had the grace to look embarrassed at being caught in her lie.   
  
"The man you assaulted," Clay told her, "is our cousin. His name is Gary Hobson and he's been out of the hospital less than three days. The other man is our financial advisor, Jake Evans. He's gotten to be a pretty good friend. As for the woman, she's a friend of Gary's. Period. She's also the one who's gonna whip your butt if you don't behave yourself. And don't think I'm kiddin'. She's already taken on a professional killer and two escaped cons. And won. You won't even be a speed bump."  
  
***********  
  
"I'm sorry," Gary murmured weakly as they settled him on the sofa. "I'm so sorry. I-I didn't . . . didn't mean to hurt anyone. Is she . . .?"  
  
"The only thing wounded was her pride," Jake chuckled. Catching Polly's expression from the corner of his eye, he had to add, "so far."  
  
"I promise to restrain myself," Polly assured them as she carefully prepared the injection. With practiced ease, she swabbed down a spot on Gary's upper arm, injecting the medication into the muscle. "This is gonna knock you for a loop, sweetie, so don't try to get up." She felt his forehead with the back of her hand. "No fever," she reported. "A little clammy, though. How do you feel?"  
  
"Tired," Gary admitted, his voice already beginning to slur. "T-tell 'em 'm sorry ta be . . . be such a drag." His eyelids fluttered a bit as he strove to stay alert. "Tha's some powerful stuff," he murmured drowsily.  
  
"Only because I shot you in the arm instead of the hip," Polly informed him. "Less tissue for the medication to filter through. Now, quit fightin' it and go to sleep." She watched as his eyes blinked several times, then slowly drifted shut, finally relaxing as he began making soft snoring sounds. "Now to go have a chat with Ms. Treyton."  
  
*************  
  
Clay's little sister soon found that few could 'read the riot act' as well as Polly Gannon. The older woman sat her down and talked to her, non-stop, for twenty minutes without repeating herself once. When Polly was finished, Ellie Treyton was one thoroughly chastised young woman.  
  
"I thought he was Clay," she grumbled in her own defense.   
  
"Are you telling' me that you would assault your own brother if you saw him in the same shape as Gary?" Polly demanded. "You are some piece of work, girl. What did he ever do to you for you to hate him so much?"  
  
"I'd kinda like to know that, too," Clay admitted. "One of the main reason's I couldn't wait to get outta here was because I felt like no one wanted me around."  
  
"Oh, really!" Ellie sneered. "Mama's number one son. The one that could do no wrong. Mama and Daddy acted like the sun rose and set with you! And all you ever did was cause 'em grief! Mr. Clay 'All Mighty' Treyton, the big rodeo star!"  
  
Clay shook his head sadly as he turned to stare out the window. "How did we ever get so screwed up?" he sighed. "Seems like the only one who never knew how much you and Ma cared was me."  
  
"Yeah, right!" Ellie snorted. "How could you miss it? They hardly ever let you out of their sight. You couldn't blink without them checkin' to see if you had somethin' in your eye. Then Mama gives all her diaries to that lawyer to give to you! Probably to keep the rest of us from findin' out how much she favored you over us."  
  
"It wasn't to keep anything from the rest of you," Dwight told his youngest with a sigh. "She wanted Clay to finally know the truth. About himself and about Buddy here."  
  
"And that's another thing," Ellie said shifting in her seat to glare at Buddy. "How come we never knew about you? Ya'll never said anything about Clay bein' a twin."  
  
"Your mama never told you a lot of things," the elder Treyton replied. "She never told me her real name until just before she died. You have grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins who you never knew existed. Clay had to go through his whole life feelin' like an outcast because she was scared to death that the people who stole Buddy were still alive and just waitin' for a chance to steal him, too. She didn't love you any less, and neither did I. But she wasn't alone when she had the rest of you. Even so, when you were born, she wouldn't sleep at night until she was sure each and every one of you was safe. And she'd get up to check on you four, five times a night. Even when you weren't kids any more."  
  
Ellie was looking a little less angry and very confused. "I never knew that," she murmured. "Why was Mama alone when . . .?"  
  
"Because my real dad ran off and left her high and dry," Clay told her bitterly. He was still staring out the window at nothing. "He was a liar, a cheat, and a cradle robber. She was barely sixteen, pregnant and scared. She was also consumed with guilt over runnin' off in the first place and livin' in sin with a man twice her age," he added sadly. "She was afraid to go home and admit her mistake, and ashamed of what people might think. Mama was raised Catholic, ya see."  
  
"I . . . I didn't know that," Ellie murmured. She looked from Clay, to Buddy, to Jake, then back to Buddy. "And you were found . . ."  
  
"By a pile of wreckage," Buddy nodded. "There was no way on earth I should've survived, but I did."  
  
"This is so weird," the youngest Treyton sighed, shaking her head in confusion. "I don't know what to think anymore. I-I've been so angry because I felt so . . . so left out. Mama was so . . . secretive. She panicked if one of us even looked at those diaries. Totally freaked out one day when I found one she'd left on the couch. And she was always . . . always watchin' you, Clay. Like just the sight of you made her day complete. Made the rest of us sick just to see it. Maybe you never noticed, but she was frantic every time you were even ten minutes late for dinner."  
  
"How could I help but notice!" Clay snorted, turning to face her. "I had more elbow room when they sent me to prison for a year. Don't you see, Ellie? What you saw as . . . as coddling, I saw as a . . . a noose that was slowly stranglin' the life outta me. I was . . . was jealous of the freedom the rest of you were given. You were allowed to grow a-and become whatever you wanted to be. I was bein' pushed and molded and . . . and shaped. I finally decided that was why she named me 'Clay.' Until I read those diaries of hers, I thought she was usin' me to . . . to fulfill some dream she'd had as a girl. Claire and the boys probably saw it the same way you did. They certainly seemed to resent me just as much."  
  
"All this soul searching is wonderful for clearin' the air," Polly said into the sudden silence, "but that still doesn't excuse you, young lady, for attacking a man who was clearly injured. Or for you not letting Clay know that your mama was dyin'. That takes a powerful lotta hate, girl."  
  
Ellie's pretty face was a study in confusion as she started pacing her corner of the room. "I'll admit," she sighed, "that I've often wished that you'd never been born, Clay. For a lot of reasons. None of them seem that important, now. Or even that big a deal, all things considered. I just . . . just don't know how to handle this."  
  
Moving away from the window, Clay stepped into his sister's path. Hesitantly, he placed a hand on each of her shoulders. "I can't undo the past," he told her, "any more than you can. I don't even know if the future is gonna be any better. All I can do is try. To be a better brother, and a better person. Can you just try not to hate me so much?"  
  
"I don't know," she told him honestly. "That's asking an awful lot, big brother. I just don't know if I can change the way I've felt my whole life."  
  
"Then just give me the chance to prove that I've changed," he pleaded earnestly. "Can you do that much?"  
  
Hesitantly, biting her lower lip as she met his muddy green eyes, Ellie nodded. Wordlessly, she stepped back, breaking his grasp. She turned and was heading for the door when rapid footsteps disturbed the stillness. Everyone froze as two handsome, almost identical, young men burst into the room.   
  
"Pa!" the lead one cried excitedly. "What's Clay doin' sleepin' out in that Winnebago? Did you finally slam the . . . door . . .?" He stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of the twins and Jake, an almost comic look of astonishment on his youthful features. The other young man, following close on his heels, almost knocked him to the floor. "C-Clay?"  
  
"Here we go again," Polly sighed.  
  
***********  
  
The two young men, whom Dwight introduced as Phillip and James, his twin sons, were only the vanguard of a general influx of family members. The slamming of the front door announced the arrival of Claire, a slender redhead, her husband Stuart Peterson, and three small tornadoes named Joey, Billy and Shelley, ages seven through ten, respectively. The children seemed to be the only ones not completely bowled over by finding three 'Clays' arranged around the parlor. As little Joey stated enthusiastically, it was 'cool!'   
  
"Do you ride bulls, too?" he asked, climbing into Jakes lap without hesitation.   
  
"Only on paper," the banker replied with an easy grin. Jake chuckled at the child's puzzled look, thinking that this was something he and Joan were missing out on. Maybe it was time to bring up the subject of marriage once more. "Is that what you want to be when you grow up? A bull rider?"  
  
"Not if I can help it," Claire assured him. Her startled gaze kept flickering from one look-a-like to the next. "I thought the man in the . . . He looks so . . . Will the real Clay Treyton please stand up?"  
  
"Only if you promise not to hit me," Clay replied with a hesitant grin. He stepped around Ellie, who was still looking a little flummoxed, to stand in front of the sister who was only two years younger than he was. The one whose wedding he had almost trashed. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, he mentally prepared himself for another confrontation. Expecting to meet the same hatred that had filled Ellie's eyes such a short while ago, he was surprised to see tears spilling down her cheeks.  
  
"You found him," she said in a voice tight with emotion. "Wh-which one is he?"  
  
Feeling a little confused himself, Clay introduced her to Buddy and Jake, quickly explaining how they had found each other through the man they had seen sleeping out in the RV. With a tearful little cry, Claire threw her arms around her long lost brother, pulling him into a tight embrace. Hesitant at first, Buddy put his arms around her as tears welled in his own eyes. This was the kind of greeting he had hoped for. This . . . this 'welcome to the family.' They stood like that for more than a minute, until Stuart placed a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. Once he had gotten her attention he pointed with his chin toward Clay, who was looking on, an unreadable expression on his face. Wordlessly, Claire wrapped her brother in a fierce embrace, burying her face against his chest. Still a little unsure of himself, Clay put his arms around her, too.  
  
"I'm so happy for you," she said, pulling away at last. "After all this time, we didn't dare to hope that . . . that he was even still alive."  
  
"You knew?" Dwight asked, just as confused as everyone else. "How? She never told anyone!"  
  
"Who do you think delivered Mama's diaries to the lawyer after she died?" Claire sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm not ashamed to say I read everyone of them, cover to cover, before I did. Once I knew the truth, it was easier to understand why Clay acted the way he did. Imagine going through your whole life feeling . . . incomplete. It would make anyone act a little crazy."  
  
"But you never let on," Ellie complained. "You let the rest of us think . . ."  
  
"It wasn't my secret to tell," Claire reminded her kid sister. "Besides, you have no room to talk, Ellie. What you did was just as bad. Still, one of us should've followed up on it, made sure that you were told how sick she was," she added to Clay. "She asked about you every day."  
  
Feeling a little 'off base,' Clay looked from his sister to her husband. Stuart didn't seem at all surprised by the revelation. "She told you?"  
  
"Claire and I have very few secrets from each other," he shrugged, giving his brother-in-law a tiny grin. "She wanted me to know, so we could get started mendin' fences. We were beginnin' to think we were never gonna hear from you again."  
  
Buddy nudged his twin and made a loud throat clearing sound. When Clay looked his way, he tilted his head in the direction of the front door. It took him a moment, but Clay was finally able to pull his thoughts together long enough to remember his 'peace offerings.' He quickly excused himself and practically ran from the room, Buddy hot on his heels.  
  
Little Joey had been watching the scene between his mother and uncle with childish curiosity. Looking up at the man whose lap he still occupied, he tried to figure out where his new friend fit in.  
  
"Are you my uncle, too?" he asked.  
  
Jake shook his head with a sad smile. "I'm afraid not, pal," he sighed. "I'm kinda wishing I was, though."  
  
Joey lay his head against Jake's shoulder. "Me, too. I could've had the best 'Show 'n' Tell' ever."  
  
***************  
  
Gary stirred fitfully on his makeshift bed, his drugged sleep disturbed by sinister phantoms out of his past. Some old, some of a more recent vintage. Flashing hooves alternated with the leering grin of Aristotle Savalas. Pounding fists provided punctuation for the silky smooth voice of J. T. Marley as he whispered, 'Like a moth to a flame.' Gary murmured muted protests as his hands twitched spasmodically. In his mind, he was lashing out fiercely against his enemies, landing telling blows on mouth and chin, trying to silence their taunting voices.   
  
A loud, rattling 'thunk!' startled him into a dazed wakefulness. Alarmed, he tried to sit up, falling back with a choked cry as pain seared through his broken ribs. A moment later, a familiar face looked in through the open doorway.  
  
"You okay, cuz?" Buddy asked, concern evident in his voice. Hesitantly, he climbed the rest of the way into the vehicle at Gary's silent nod. "You're lookin' a mite better. Feel like joinin' the rest of the party?"  
  
"Um, yeah," he murmured, scrubbing both hands over his face. "Could you . . . could you help me up? Polly keeps strapping me down for some reason." He fumbled at the buckle fastening the seatbelt across his chest until Buddy gently pushed his hands away.   
  
"She doesn't want you fallin' and puncturin' a lung or somethin'," Buddy grinned. He quickly released the strap around Gary's legs as well. "There ya go, cuz. Let me give ya a hand up."  
  
With Buddy's help, Gary carefully levered himself to a sitting position. He sat there a moment as a wave of dizziness washed over him. As soon as he felt ready, he let his cousin assist him to his feet. Getting a firm grasp on his cane, Gary signaled his readiness with a nod.  
  
Buddy scrambled out of the RV, reaching back in to steady his cousin's descent. Clay was waiting patiently near a large wooden crate.  
  
"Are we f-finally gonna get to see what's in that thing?" Gary grunted as he stepped down to the hard packed dirt of the drive.  
  
"Yup," Clay grinned. "Wait 'til you meet the rest of the family, Gary. I know you 'n' Ellie got off on the wrong foot, but . . ."  
  
"Th-that's okay," Gary stammered uneasily. "She just startled me is all." He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to dispel the lingering effects of the phenergan Polly had given him less than an hour before. "Um, that looks pretty heavy. Need any help?"  
  
"No offense, Gary," Clay replied, giving the cane a meaningful glance, "but you're in no shape to be liftin' much of anything."  
  
"Th-that's not what I meant," Gary replied. "I was gonna send Jake out to give you a hand."  
  
The twins grabbed the ends of the crate and lifted it clear of the ground . . . with obvious effort.  
  
"N-no problem," Buddy grunted. "We've got it."  
  
Moving as quickly as their burden would allow, the twins led the way back to join the rest of the family gathering. Gary haltingly brought up the rear.   
  
"Look who woke up," Clay grunted as they sat the crate in the middle of the room. "Gary, this is my sister Claire and her husband, Stuart. Those bookends are my kid brothers, Jamie and Phil." The two handsome, sandy haired men nodded simultaneously. "The little ones are, let me see if I can get this right, Joey, Billy an' Shelley?" Each of the children smiled as he spoke their names. Giving his youngest sister a mischievous glance, he couldn't resist one tiny dig. "And you've already met Ellie, of course. Everyone, this is our cousin. Gary Hobson of Chicago."  
  
Gary rolled his eyes in a 'Give me strength' expression as he hobbled up to take Ellie's left hand in a firm grip. "My pleasure," he murmured, giving her a hesitant smile. "We, um, we didn't get off to a very good start, I'm afraid. Please allow me to apologize for my earlier behavior," he added graciously. "You . . . you sorta . . . caught me at a bad moment."  
  
Ellie's face split into a dreamy smile as he kissed her fingers in a courtly gesture. "Oh my," she sighed breathlessly. "Someone sure did a good job raisin' you! Clay, I'll forgive you anything if you bring home more like this one!"  
  
A general spate of laughter drowned out nine year old Billy's groan of disgust. Shelley looked like she had just fallen into her favorite fairytale. Joey simply looked around at the four of them, a wistful expression on his face. "Are you sure you can't stay for 'Show 'n' Tell?" he pleaded, looking up at Jake.  
  
"Sorry, kiddo," Jake chuckled. "I have a job to get back to. Would a picture do?"  
  
"Naw," Joey sighed. "Anyone can fake a picture these days. It's not fair!" he whined, crossing his arms in a childish pout. "My four uncles could beat Wally's talkin' crow any day!"  
  
"I think he means Walter Lewis's mynah bird," his father chuckled as he helped Gary to a seat.  
  
"I hope so," Polly quipped. "I've had enough of the 'Twilight Zone,' thank you very much."  
  
"Amen," Gary chuckled as he settled into the same easy chair he had occupied earlier. "Though I'll take talking crows over some of the other stuff we've been through, lately," he added dryly.   
  
With Buddy's help, Clay pried the top off the crate with a small pry bar. Laying them both aside, he began digging around in the packing material until he pulled out a small, brightly wrapped box. Checking the label, he handed it to his niece. The next two went to his nephews, then one each to his brothers. Phil and Jamie glanced at each other in that silent communication that twins often share before accepting the packages. They, of all Clay's siblings, could understand the turmoil that had driven their older brother, and could more easily forgive him. The next box went to their father.  
  
Last was a rather large package that took the combined effort of both men to wrestle from the crate. It was about four feet long and two feet high, about the size of a footlocker. They set it down in front of Stuart and Claire.  
  
"I, um, I sorta figured I owe the two of you a really, really special wedding present after what I did," Clay stammered uneasily. "So I had this made special." He gave his sister a pleading look. "I can only hope this makes up, just a little, for the rotten way I treated you. All of you." With that, he stood up, stepping aside to let Claire get to the package.  
  
Kneeling, she carefully undid the silken cord holding the lid in place. This she was able to remove with little effort. Inside, loosely covered in tissue, was an ornately inlaid chest. It was made of a very dark wood, teak if she had to guess. The top was curved with a nacreous disc inlaid into the wood near one corner. Faceted crystals made a glittering map of the constellations. Lifting it from the box, they could see that more inlay work had been done on the four sides of the chest. All in natural wood veneer, it formed a panoramic landscape of snowcapped mountains gleaming in the moonlight.   
  
"Wherever did you find this?" Stuart asked breathlessly. "I don't know six people in the world that can do this kinda detailed work!"  
  
"One of 'em lives in El Paso," Clay replied, shifting his feet nervously. "So . . . do you like it?"  
  
"It's gorgeous!" Claire answered breathlessly. "How on earth could you afford something like this? It . . . it's too much! We can't possibly . . ."  
  
"Turn it down," Ellie finished for her. "Didn't you hear, sis? He had it made special. That makes it one of a kind. He can't exactly take it back."  
  
"N-no," Claire sighed uncertainly. "I don't suppose . . ." She threw her arms around Clay's neck, hugging him so tight he had to beg for air. "I love it!" she told him tearfully. "I love you, big brother. Don't you ever forget that!"  
  
"I won't," Clay whispered in a strained voice. "I won't ever doubt that again."  
  
************* 


	4. Past And Present

For the first time in his life, that he could recall, Clay Treyton actually enjoyed sitting down to a Thanksgiving dinner with his family. The conversation focused mainly on Gary and Buddy. Everyone was eager to learn as much as they could about the missing half of their family. The children were especially curious, and entertaining. The only marring factor was the conspicuous absence of their mother, Virginia. It had been over two years since her death, yet they still felt her loss most keenly.  
  
Some time later, while Claire was putting the children to bed and the others had retired to the parlor to talk, Gary went out to the front porch. Easing himself down onto the steps, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.  
  
"Hi, Mom. Yeah, it's good to hear your voice, too," he murmured quietly into the instrument. "I-I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. I should've called before now. I'm fine. Really. H-how's Dad . . . and Marissa? I know the cat's fine, Mom. He paid me a visit a coupla days ago. No, no, he-he just . . . delivered his warning and took off. That reminds me. C-could you, um, pick up a case of cat food for 'im? Fancy Feast. Yeah, yeah, I know it's a little pricey, but, you know, all things considered . . . He seems to like the chicken best. Thanks, Mom. The twins? They're fine. We're at Clay's home now. No, they're great! Things got off to a rocky start, at first, but we're having a great time. Why'd . . . I just . . . I guess I just . . . just missed being home. I-I've gotta go now, Mom. Don't wanna be rude to my host. I love you, too. Give Dad a hug for me. Marissa, too. I love you. Bye."  
  
Gary sat there for a long moment, staring at the silent instrument. Last year, he had spent both of the holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, in the hospital. This year, he vowed, would be different. This Christmas would be spent in his own home, surrounded by family and friends.  
  
"Penny for your thoughts."  
  
Gary looked up to see Polly standing there, arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. "You're giving away your age again, Polly," he replied with a tired grin. "You forgot to adjust for inflation."  
  
"Nah," she said, stepping onto the porch. Moving with an awkward grace, Polly eased down until she was seated beside him on the stone steps. "Supply and demand. I figure it's a buyer's market right now," she told him. "So tell me, oh Swami. What mysteries of the universe were you able to unlock with such intense contemplation of this humble tool?"  
  
Slipping the phone into his pocket, Gary turned his gaze upwards. It was a crisp, clear night. The stars above shone just as brightly as the crystals in Claire's gift. "Just thinking about home," he told her, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "And family. How much I miss 'em. That kinda stuff."  
  
"You want to cancel the rest of this trip?" Polly asked. "Catch a flight out of San Antonio?"  
  
"No," he told her with a shake of his head. "This means too much to the twins. They went to a lot of trouble, back in Chicago, to help me. Set themselves up as bait to draw those two out. Then they went to all this trouble so I could relax and unwind. I owe 'em this much."  
  
"But you're not havin' as much fun as they thought you would," she nodded, filling in the blanks. "In fact, you've barely survived this little getaway."  
  
"That's not their fault," Gary shrugged. "Th-these things just seem to keep happening to me."  
  
They sat there for a moment longer, not speaking. Polly was beginning to wonder if it was time for another 'astronomy lesson,' when Gary leaned back with a sigh, cupping both hands around his knees.  
  
"You're the first person to get this close to me," he said, giving her a sideways look, "without asking a whole bunch of questions. Why's that? Don't you want to know? Or . . . or do you already know the answers?"  
  
Polly leaned back also, propping her elbows on the top step for support. "Gary," she said, giving him a direct look, "where you're concerned, I don't even wanna know the questions. Strange things were happening to you when we first met. That was how we first met. From what I've seen, it don't look to be slowin' down in the foreseeable future, either. But you're a good man, for all that you live on the corner of 'Twilight Zone Lane' and 'Outer Limits Boulevard.' I have to believe that, whatever you're into, it has the Good Lord's approval. That's all I need to know." She turned her face to the heavens. "That's all anyone has a right to know. I'm not sayin' I'll turn a deaf ear if you want to talk about it. Just that I'll never try to pry, or bully it out of you."  
  
Gary nodded silently as he absorbed her words, and their implication. It was basically a show of faith and support. No strings. No hidden agendas. It was an attitude he found . . . refreshing.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured softly. "I may take you up on that . . . someday."  
  
*************  
  
The next morning, Ellie insisted on apologizing to Gary for the rude way she had greeted him the previous day, even though Gary had tried to take all the blame. Nonetheless, she persuaded him to let her fix a picnic lunch out of leftovers and give him a guided tour of the ranch. On horseback.  
  
A couple of hours after breakfast, where the senior Mr. Treyton had regaled them with tall tales and amusing anecdotes from Clay's childhood, Ellie set about preparing a small basket of food. In the meantime, she had one of the hands saddle the two jumpers. A short time later, Gary was eying the fidgety Zeke with some trepidation as she put the bay's reins in his hand.   
  
"W-wouldn't one of the other's be a-a better choice?" he stammered nervously. "One that's a little less . . . excitable? Your dad said you were still breaking these two in."  
  
"They need to be exercised everyday," she shrugged, "or they get antsy. They've actually been saddle broke for a while. I just have to teach them to jump fences and such. Don't let these two fool you, though. They're just a coupla big babies. Gentle as lambs."  
  
Gary murmured something under his breath as one of the younger twins, he wasn't sure which one, held the thoroughbred still for him to mount. In spite of his own nervousness, Gary held the reins steady but not too tight, resisting the urge to clamp his legs tightly around the animal's sleek girth as he settled into the saddle. Some nagging itch at the back of his mind was telling him to stay alert. He actually found himself wishing he had the Paper in front of him. Something, anything, to tell him if he was making a mistake by going on this innocent excursion. As it was, he didn't know if this attack of nerves was a flashback . . . or a premonition.  
  
As the two rode away at a steady walk, Jamie turned to his twin.  
  
"I'm a little worried about cousin Gary," Jamie sighed. "He don't look too good, and he was talkin' funny."  
  
"Talkin' funny!" Phil repeated. "In what way?"   
  
"Well, when Ellie made that comment about the horses being 'gentle as lambs,'" he reported, "Gary mumbled something that sounded kinda like, 'Lamb or Lambzilla?'"  
  
***************************  
  
"Our spread is pretty small," Ellie was telling Gary as they rode along the fence-line. "Just a coupla thousand acres. We raise mostly longhorns and a few Guernsey's in this sector. Jamie and Phil are raising Brahmas and Black Angus for the rodeo, too. I'm trying to train these two for the Equestrian Trials. If I make a good showing, Dad says I can get a coupla mares and breed them. Start my own stable." She looked back to where Gary was trailing a yard or so behind her. "You okay back there?"  
  
Gary just nodded, keeping both hands on the reins. He had been unable to shake that feeling of imminent disaster which had settled over him the moment he'd first caught sight of Zeke that morning. Something was going to happen.   
  
It was a little quirk he had begun to notice, and tried vehemently to deny, ever since he had first started getting the Paper. Little 'flashes' of intuition. Or premonition. It was usually strongest when the Paper was trying to get his attention. Except the Paper was still in Chicago. And he wasn't. Until whatever was going to happen . . . happened, all he could do was stay alert. A task which was made all the harder by his weakened condition. If only one of the others had come with them, instead of going into town to Christmas shop. Polly had wanted to come, but he had talked her out of it. Why?  
  
***********************  
  
They stopped for lunch a little after noon. Ellie insisted on doing everything, making Gary sit with his back against the big oak tree they had tethered the horses to. She quickly spread the cloth on the ground, weighing it down with plates, food and sodas, adding four small rocks to hold down the corners.   
  
Truthfully, Gary was glad for the break. It had taken considerable effort, on his part, to hold the spirited Zeke to a slow, steady pace. The two-year-old might be 'saddle broke,' but he still wanted to run. By the time Ellie had called a halt, Gary was trembling with exhaustion.   
  
"I guess this wasn't such a hot idea," Ellie sighed, handing her guest a plate loaded with food. "You don't seem to be enjoying this little outing."  
  
Gary accepted the plate with a murmured 'thank you.' "I guess I'm still . . . I've only been out of the hospital a few days," he reminded her. "I should've known better, myself. This is a beautiful place, though. Thank you for showing me around." Taking a bite of his sandwich, he let his eyes roam over the rolling vista. "You could make movies out here," he commented. "Westerns or nature films. I can just see a posse riding over that hill, guns blazing, to drive off a gang of outlaws attacking the stagecoach."  
  
"That's quite an imagination you have," Ellie giggled. "In fact, that did happen, right about where you were pointing. Back about a hundred and thirty years ago a couple of local boys decided there was an easier way to make a living than ranching or grubbing in the dirt. Trouble was, they kept pickin' the same area for their ambushes. They got away with it the first few times by killin' all the witnesses. Then the sheriff set up an ambush. Right there, where that road cuts through the valley. They waited 'til the next stage was due, and then set their trap. Started a runnin' gunfight that lasted almost a day. Ended with two deputies and three of the gang dead. The rest of the gang was tried and hung within the week. Justice was swift and brutal back then. It had to be."  
  
A chill ran up Gary's spine as he pictured the scene. His hands drifted up to his shoulders as he felt the pain from more than one old wound. In those days, even the least of the injuries he had suffered over the past year and a half would have proven either permanently crippling . . . or fatal. He felt fortunate to live in a time where he had access to such good medical care.   
  
His eyes still riveted to that narrow stretch of road, Gary couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen. The few bites of sandwich he had just swallowed sat like lumps of lead in his stomach. His gaze was drawn to their left as the sound of an engine disrupted the peaceful silence. Moments later, he saw a red and white pick-up truck come barreling around the curve where the road ran parallel to the fence. Gary rubbed his left hand over the back of his neck as every hair seemed to stand on end.   
  
"W-we'd better head back," he stammered nervously, struggling to his feet. Eyes glued to the truck, Gary eased back toward the horses. "I-I really think we n-need to be going."  
  
"What's wrong?" Ellie asked, concern strong in her voice. "Are you feeling . . .?"  
  
"I-I'm fine," Gary assured her. "I just . . .Don't ask me to explain," he pleaded. "Just trust me, we have to go. Now." The truck, which had driven past, had slowed after a few yards and was now maneuvering to turn back. "Forget the food," he snapped. "Get on Danny and let's go!"  
  
Grabbing Zeke's reins, Gary clambered awkwardly into the saddle. Holding the fidgety colt in place with considerable effort, he waited until Ellie was also mounted, then turned back towards the main house. As he gave the horse's flanks a gentle kick, the truck completed its turn and was headed back their way.   
  
"They must be lost," Ellie murmured, sidling her mount toward the fence. "Probably just need directions."  
  
"They don't want directions," Gary mumbled, putting himself between her and the truck. "They want me. Now, please, just do as I say and get out of here!"  
  
Turning Danny's head in the direction of the ranch, Ellie nudged him into a walk. "You'll explain all this later?" she asked.  
  
"If I can," Gary replied. He was watching the truck over his right shoulder. It had pulled off the road and was aimed at the fence. One of the men in the cab pointed straight at him as the vehicle picked up speed. "Go!" Gary yelled, slapping Danny on the rump. The young palomino leaped forward, startled into a full gallop before Ellie could get out so much as a yelp. Zeke, not wanting to be left behind, sprang after his stable mate without any urging from his rider. Which suited Gary just fine. The two colts had already covered almost two hundred yards before the truck crashed through the fence.   
  
Ellie led the way, taking a different trail than they had followed coming out. Knowing that the horses could not long outrun the truck, she led them into a copse of trees, following a game trail for several yards, before ducking into a small ravine. Choosing her path carefully, to spare the horses, she navigated the rocky ground as fast as she dared, Gary close behind her.   
  
For his part, Gary was fighting pain and weakness to stay glued to his saddle. The jolting ride was not helping his injuries at all. If he survived this wild ride, he would be regretting having eaten that sandwich. If he survived. The two in the truck seemed to have definite plans to the contrary. In spite of the rough terrain, the vehicle was still gaining on them. Gary had no illusions as to how he would fare if the escaped felons caught up with him. They had almost killed him when he was in good shape! What worried him most was, not what they would do to him, but what might they do to Ellie? As they came to a fork in the small canyon, Gary pulled back slightly on the reins, slowing Zeke, and making sure Ellie was out of sight as the truck rounded the turn behind him. His decision made, Gary took the other fork, leading the pursuit away from the girl.  
  
Zeke proved to be as surefooted as a mountain goat, as well as a natural jumper. He took small obstacles as if they didn't exist. Larger ones, of four feet or higher, offered more of a challenge, which the colt accepted with youthful zeal. After they cleared a six-foot wide streambed without so much as a break in stride, Gary figured this horse wouldn't need much training at all!  
  
The truck was slowed by the rough terrain, but the felons had chosen well. It plowed over, through, or around every barrier to their prey. Gary knew that even the great heart of his young steed wouldn't be able to save him if he didn't manage to shake his pursuers soon. Then he saw it. A steep trail leading up the side of the ravine. Too narrow for the truck to climb, even in four-wheel drive, it was just wide enough for the colt to navigate safely, and less than a hundred feet before it disappeared over the top. With a firm hand, he guided the energetic Zeke to this new challenge.   
  
They were only halfway up the narrow path when the first shot rang out. Instinctively, Gary jerked backwards as dust and dirt stung his face. The bullet had gouged a deep furrow into the sandstone cliff as it ricocheted an inch in front of him. Startled, he had to keep a tight rein on Zeke as the colt tried to rear in fright. With a flick of the reins, Gary urged the young bay into leaping ahead, taking the last few yards at a death-defying pace. Another shot rang out, echoing off the walls of the narrow ravine. Gary arched his body as he felt a burning sensation sear across his back just as they cleared the top of the trail. The feeling of nausea he had been fighting returned in full force. Clinging to Zeke's broad back, he let the sweat soaked animal have its head. He knew the way back home better than Gary did, the young man figured. Besides which, Gary was beginning to have trouble concentrating.   
  
******************  
  
The two escaped felons kept driving forward until they reached the end of the narrow gully. Cursing, they left the vehicle and clambered up the steep sandstone bluff, still hoping to catch up with their prey.  
  
"I know I hit the bastard," Sykes growled sometime later. "I saw 'im jerk in the saddle."  
  
"The horse coulda stumbled," Hicks grumbled. "You probably missed. Again."  
  
"How'd you expect me to hit anything," the larger man snarled, "the way you were bouncin' that truck around?"  
  
"Excuses, excuses," Hicks chuckled as he topped the next rise. "Why don't you admit you couldn't . . . Well. I'll be . . . Looks like you did hit the poor sap." He pointed downhill to where a lone figure sat atop a slowly moving horse. His back was to them . . . and was half covered with a dark, glistening stain. As they watched, the figure began to sway in the saddle. A moment later, he fell, landing hard on his right side and rolling onto his back.   
  
With a bark of laughter, Sykes started to clamber down the hill to finish the job. A strong, callused hand held him back.   
  
"Easy!" Hicks whispered. "It could be a trap. The girl might've ridden ahead for help."  
  
Reluctantly, Sykes settled back down to watch, and wait.  
  
******************  
  
Zeke had slowed to a walk at some point by the time Gary was able to focus his reeling thoughts. How had those two known where to look for them? And why were they so determined to kill him? Gary wasn't sure they had actually been looking for him, per se, so much as they had been looking for someone who resembled Clay enough to fool their doomed boss.   
  
The world blurred for a moment, and Gary found himself lying on his back on the hard, dusty ground, something warm caressing the right side of his neck. 'How'd I get here?' he wondered fuzzily. Swatting halfheartedly at a velvety softness, he started to sit up, only to feel a red-hot lance of pain when he tried to move. Biting back a groan, he rolled onto his side. Where was Zeke? By slowly craning his head, Gary was able to see the young jumper calmly grazing less than two feet away. With grim determination, he managed to roll onto his hands and knees. He knelt like that a moment, head hanging, until a wave of dizziness had passed. Everything hurt, especially his back and his ribs. It took him several tries, but he finally got to his feet, staggering over to retrieve his mount. Zeke merely eyed him docilely. The mad dash through the ravine had run off all the youthful energy he had displayed earlier that day.  
  
******************  
  
"We can still take 'im," Sykes murmured, eyeing his target eagerly over his gun sight. "One shot. Right through the head."  
  
"No, you dummy!" Hicks hissed, slapping the gun down. "You wanna let the whole world know where we are? No! We gotta be quiet about this."  
  
Scowling at his partner, Sykes had to concede the point. He put the gun away and pulled out a huge knife. "So, let's go see how loud a man can scream with his throat cut," he chuckled.   
  
Hicks nodded and started to get to his feet. Suddenly, he froze. A moment later, he dropped back down, dragging Sykes with him. He had barely glimpsed two riders approaching from around the next hill. "I don't think they've seen us yet," he hissed.  
  
*****************  
  
For several seconds, Gary just stood there, hanging onto the saddle horn as if it were a lifeline. The back of his shirt was wet. Something warm and sticky was causing it to cling to his skin. Belatedly, he recalled the pain that had burned across his back. 'Crap,' he sighed. 'Shot again. I really gotta look into having that bull's-eye tattoo removed one of these days.' With Herculean effort, he mounted the weary jumper, clinging grimly to the saddle as the world did a sickening dance around him. He glanced up just once to see that the sun was still high above him, but well past the noon position. How much time had passed, he wondered, since he had eluded his pursuers? And where was the ranch from here? Carefully, he looked around, realizing, for the first time, that he was lost. Hanging his head in exhaustion, Gary tried to ponder his options.  
  
"Gary?"  
  
Was that . . .?   
  
"Gary! Oh, man. Cuz, we cain't let you out of our sight for a minute!"   
  
It was Buddy! What was he doing out here? Gary cautiously raised his head to see two figures riding towards him. Was that Clay, or was he seeing double? Then he noticed the feather sticking out of the hatband.   
  
"Hey," Gary murmured tiredly. "Good to . . . um, h-how . . .?"  
  
"Polly cut our shoppin' trip short a few hours ago," the songwriter explained as he pulled up next to the bay. "Said you were in some kinda . . . Christ, cuz! What happened?"  
  
"Sykes and Hicks," Gary mumbled, wincing as Buddy pulled aside the edges of the blood soaked material. "Left 'em stuck in a ravine . . . somewhere. Ellie! Is she okay?"  
  
"Don't know," Clay replied truthfully. "We split up 'cause we had no idea where ya'll were headed. She may be back at the house by now, tryin' to find help for you." Wincing, he peered closely at the exposed wound as Buddy peeled aside the bloody shirt. "This is deep, Gary, and you're still losin' blood. We better get you to a hospital."  
  
"Sure," Gary sighed. "Great vacation. Unique. A tour of the better hospitals of the southwest. Think we could sell it as a package deal?"  
  
"Only to you, cuz," Buddy chuckled as he took Zeke's reins. "Only to you." With his other hand, he pulled out a hand-held radio. "We found him," he reported. "We're headed back to the house and we'll need a doctor. Ellie isn't with 'im, though."  
  
"She's okay," a tinny voice replied. It sounded like one of the younger twins. "She rode up about half an hour ago. We tried to call, but you must've been in a 'dead zone.' We've already got an ambulance on the way, and Jake's on the horn with the Sheriff's office. How bad is he hurt?"  
  
Casting his cousin an anxious glance, Buddy kneed his cowpony into a trot as he replied. "Better than the last time, but he's hurtin'. We're about three miles west southwest of the main house. Have the ambulance meet us, if it can."  
  
They had gone only a few steps when Gary began to sway dangerously in his saddle. Clay, who had been riding close beside his cousin, moved quickly to catch the injured man, a look of guilt and despair twisting his handsome features. Wordlessly, he slid from his pony and onto the saddle behind Gary. Steadying the nearly unconscious man against his own chest, Clay took Zeke's reins from Buddy.  
  
"You lead Cochise," he told his brother, his face grim. "I'll take care of Gary."   
  
Buddy just nodded, leading the way at a slower pace. Speed might be essential, but Gary was in no shape for a jolting ride.  
  
*****************  
  
"Damn!" Hicks groaned. "Which one is the real Treyton? They all look alike from here!"  
  
"Why didn't you let me shoot the lot of 'em," Sykes growled as he watched the three men ride away.  
  
"Because you've only got three bullets left in that gun," Hicks reminded him. "You didn't have a full clip to begin with, and you wasted the rest back in the canyon." As soon as the trio was out of sight, Hicks stood up. "Let's get that truck turned around and get outta here," he said. "We'll have ta ditch it and steal something else in town. It won't be hard to pick up their trail again. Four men looking just alike, and one woman in a honkin' big vehicle like they got? A blind man could follow them."  
  
Moving quickly, the two escaped cons clambered back down the hill and retraced their way to the ravine. It took them a few tries, but they finally got the truck turned around and were headed back to the area where they had broken down the fence. Soon, they promised themselves, they would have their grisly 'trophy,'  
  
****************  
  
The ambulance, and a Land Rover with two deputies inside, met them after they had ridden a little over a mile. The twins pulled the horses to a stop as they spotted the two vehicles bouncing over the rough ground. Clay carefully lowered Gary's semi-conscious form into the waiting arms of his brother, who then gently eased him onto a soft patch of grass, being careful to keep his back from coming into contact with the ground.   
  
The injured man nodded his thanks, a weary smile tugging at his lips. Sweat beaded his brow as he tried not to move any more than he had too. Glancing up, he saw a large crimson stain across the front of Clay's denim jacket. Frowning in puzzlement, he turned his head just enough to look at Buddy's chest, where he saw a smaller stain smeared across his other cousin's clothing.  
  
"You guys're a mess," he mumbled weakly. "Wh-what happened? Are ya hurt?"  
  
"Nope," Clay sighed. "It's all yours, pal."  
  
Gary looked from one to the other, bewildered. His eyes widened slightly as the grim words penetrated the fog that was creeping across his brain. "Oh." He nodded slightly as his eyes drifted shut. A long, shuddering sigh shook his body, then he fell ominously still. Alarmed, Clay reached down and grabbed his cousin's wrist, sitting back with a relieved sigh of his own when he found a weak, but steady, pulse.  
  
A moment later, the two vehicles pulled close and the ambulance attendants jumped out, quickly setting up their equipment. As the EMTs eased their patient facedown onto the stretcher, Buddy and Clay looked on anxiously. The twins watched with open concern as the medics took Gary's vital signs with quick efficiency, then cut away his jacket and shirt to reveal the source of all that blood. A deep furrow ran diagonally from a point about six inches above his waist on the left side to another point just to the right of Gary's spine, where it joined the shoulder. Buddy shivered as a chill ran up his own spine. His cousin had just missed total paralysis by less than a hair! Clay's expression was bleak, but otherwise unreadable.  
  
Gary's eyes had fluttered open as his clothes were cut away. The chill air had stirred 'goose bumps' on his exposed flesh. He tried to raise his head, curious about all the fuss, only to have someone push him back down.  
  
"Just hold still, fella, and let us do all the work. That's a nasty lookin' crease you have there, son," one of the medics murmured as he set up for an IV. "Pretty deep on the upper end here. Gonna need a whole bunch o' stitches. How'd it happen?"  
  
"T-tryin' t' get away," Gary murmured, just loud enough for the twins to hear. He winced slightly as the needle was quickly inserted into a vein. "They, um, they were chasing us . . . in a truck. Big, heavy truck. Couldn't climb, though. Aahh! Wh-what . . .?"  
  
"Sorry," the other medic murmured. "You've got a lot o' dust 'n' grit in here. Have to clean some of it out before we bandage this baby up."  
  
"A little warning would be appreciated," Gary grumbled. He carefully turned his head to look at the deputy taking notes a few feet away. "L-last I saw of, unh, of those two, I left 'em in th-that gully." A chill sweat had broken out on his forehead as the medics applied thick gauze pads to his wound. It was taking everything he had not to scream curses at the two men, who he knew were only doing their job.   
  
"I know what you mean about a warning," the younger medic chuckled. He glanced up at the twins. "That other fella, back at the ranch, warned us that you guys were all stamped outta the same mold. God! You must be turnin' heads everywhere!"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Gary said through gritted teeth. "We're h-havin' a b-ball."  
  
"Are you sure it was Sykes and Hicks?" the deputy taking notes asked. "Could you see their faces?"  
  
"J-just one of them," Gary grunted as he was helped to a sitting position so that the medics could finish bandaging his wound. "The big one l-leaned out his window a few, umph, a few times. H-he was . . . was trying for a b-better aim, I guess."   
  
"There ya go," the older of the two medics told him as he taped down the end of the bandage. "Let's get you loaded up, now." He looked over to the deputies. "The rest of this'll have to wait 'til the Doc gets through with 'im," he reported. He looked at the three horses and the twins. "We don't normally allow this, but if one of you would like to ride along . . ."  
  
"I would," Clay spoke up quickly. He gave his twin a pleading look. "Do ya mind?"  
  
"No," Buddy replied with a shake of his head. He knew how badly this was hitting his brother, and how badly he needed to do this. "You go ahead," he added. "I'll take the horses back and get someone to drive me out there. It won't be long."  
  
"Thanks," Clay said with a sigh of relief. He clapped his brother on the shoulder in farewell, then hurried to help load Gary into the back of the ambulance. A minute later, their charge safely strapped in, the big van was pulling away.  
  
Buddy just nodded and turned to retrieve the horses. If he hurried, he could catch a ride in with Polly and Jake.  
  
  
*****************  
  
Gary endured the jolting ride back to the main road in stoic silence. He ached from head to toe, anyway, from his previous injuries and that wild ride through the ravine. Falling onto the hard-packed ground earlier had not helped his sore ribs one bit. The crease across his back burned like the dickens, but was a minor nuisance by comparison. The fact that he was strapped down flat on his back on the narrow gurney wasn't helping matters at all, though. By the time he reached the hospital, he was barely conscious. The ordeal of having his wound thoroughly cleaned, stitched, and dressed, left Gary exhausted. Even with the numbing effect of the xylocaine, he could feel every tug as the ER physician sewed him up. He was cheered considerably, however, by the news that he would not have to stay overnight.  
  
Polly was allowed in after the nurse had injected him with a powerful antibiotic. With a wound that deep, they were taking no chances. Blushing furiously, Gary tried to tug the bloody band of his jeans back over his hip.   
  
"Don't put those back on," she insisted as he fumbled with the snap. Her young friend was having little success due to having to move so carefully. "I brought you some clean clothes from the RV. You bled all over these. Don't look so flustered, Gary," she told him, her face grim. "I've seen you in a lot less than this. Want me to get one of the others in here to help you?"  
  
"If you don't mind," Gary murmured, his face scarlet from embarrassment. He hated feeling so helpless, but, truthfully, he could barely move his arms. He didn't feel as if he could even hold onto his cane. He would not only need help getting dressed, he would likely need help just to walk!  
  
Polly just nodded and quickly stepped out. A moment later, Buddy and Clay both entered and helped their cousin to clean up and put on fresh clothing. Gary stared regretfully at the pile of rags that had been his jeans and underwear. His shirt and jacket had been disposed of earlier after being searched for anything retrievable. This trip was proving pretty rough on his wardrobe. With one of the twins supporting him on each side, Gary limped through the double doors to rejoin Polly and the rest of the Treyton clan.  
  
"How're you feeling, Gary?" Polly asked.  
  
"Like a tooth that needs to be pulled," Gary grumbled. "Can we go now?"  
  
"In a minute." She opened a bag and pulled out a new denim jacket and snugged it gently around his shoulders. "It's too chilly today to go without a jacket. Now, let's get you out of here."  
  
Ellie stepped forward, her face a portrait of remorse. "When I looked back and you were . . . I just knew those . . . those . . . that you were . . . I should've gone back," she groaned. "Gary, I'm so sorry!"  
  
"You did the right thing," Gary assured her. "If you hadn't . . . they, well, they would've used you to get me and-and then we'd both be dead. Y-you did the right thing," he repeated lamely. He rubbed one hand across his eyes as a feeling of lethargy began to creep up on him. He looked over at Polly. "Did they give . . . give me som'in for pain in that shot?" he asked in a slightly slurred voice. "Sstartin' t' feel . . . woozy."  
  
"We'd better hurry up and get him to bed," Polly told the twins. "Jake is pulling the RV up right now. Just hang in there a moment longer, hon," she said to Gary. "They must've given you something like Stadol. It's a pain-killer, but it can knock you for a loop."  
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed. "Loopy. Tha's wha' . . . feel . . . loopy."  
  
"Oh, dear," Polly sighed. "They must've given him a big shot. Hang on to 'im, boys. I'll get a wheelchair. He's not gonna make it on his own."  
  
A few minutes later, they had a softly snoring patient strapped down to the sofa once more and were headed back for the ranch. Polly kept a careful eye on the sleeping figure while the other three held an impromptu war council.  
  
"That's twice they've singled Gary out instead of me," Clay growled as he drove them back onto the highway. "You'd think those idiots would know the difference by now."  
  
"Not from a distance," Jake commented reasonably. "All they need is a picture of a dead body that looks enough like you to fool that Jaggs fella you were telling us about. It's just been Gary's luck to be the one they catch out alone."  
  
"You don't know Jaggs," Clay grumbled. "That sadistic SOB won't settle for anything less than a body part. Preferably a head. That's probably what Sykes was doin' with that knife in 'Vegas," he told Polly with a shudder. "A little 'souvenir'. . . complete with fingerprints."  
  
"That is gross!" the tech groaned. "This Jaggs fella must be some piece of work." She turned back to her patient as he gave out a low moan. He stirred fitfully, then was silent once more. A quick check showed that he was okay.  
  
"He makes 'Jack The Ripper' look like a choirboy," Clay grimly agreed. "They'll be doin' the world a favor when they put the needle to that animal. There were rumors that he was the one that killed his parents and two brothers. Because of bein' grounded. He was twelve at the time and was tried as a minor. Yeah, I know. His records were sealed because he was a juvenile. It's been said he brags about it from time to time. Like he was proud of wipin' out his whole family."  
  
"So now he's got his sights fixed on you," Buddy grumbled. "As if that weren't bad enough, he sends two yahoos who keep goin' after the wrong target. Why do they keep attackin' Gary? Just because he's the one they find out alone?"  
  
Jake started pacing the narrow space as he considered the answer. "It may be just that simple," he told them. "It's like what you guys do at 'branding time,' or however it is you mark your stock these days. They watch and wait until they can single one out from the herd, so to speak. Which is a cheery thought. Those morons being able to watch us that closely without us seeing them. It's just been Gary's luck to be caught out both times."  
  
"Then I'll make sure he's never left alone again," Clay promised. "If those jackals want a fight, they'll have one. From now on, he ain't to be let out of our sight for one minute. If he has to go to the bathroom, one of us goes with him."  
  
"Let's extend that to include all four of you," Polly suggested. "It may well be that those bozos have set their sights on Gary because his injuries made him an 'easy kill,' so to speak. That doesn't mean they won't jump the first one they catch out on his own. The best way to deal with this, for now, is not to give them a single target."  
  
"I don't know that goin' back to the ranch is such a good idea, then," Clay murmured thoughtfully. "What if they grab one of the others for a hostage? We can't ask the whole brood to hole up like settlers at the fort 'til this is over. Fences need to be mended, stock tended to, chores done. Runnin' a ranch ain't somethin' ya can do by remote control." He fell silent as he considered their options. "No. As long as those two are after me, we can't stay there. I won't put my family in danger. We'll go back just long enough to say 'good-bye' and pick up anything we mighta left. Then it's back on the road."  
  
The others quickly saw the sense in this. Jake had grown especially fond of little Joey and hated the idea of the child falling into the clutches of the two felons. He didn't even want to think of what those two sadists might put an innocent child through!  
  
*****************  
  
"But you've barely had time to say 'hello!'" Claire protested. "You can't go running off so soon! At least stay through the weekend."  
  
"That's not a good idea," Clay said with a shake of his head and a sigh. "Now that I finally feel welcome, what I want most is to sit here and soak in it for a while, but I cain't. It's just not safe for you or the kids." He quickly went on to explain how his past was catching up with him in the form of the two escaped felons. "We'd been kinda hopin' they'd be caught before they could cross the state line," he admitted, "but they obviously weren't. We've all talked it over and agree that it's for the best. Buddy and I'll try to come back when this business is finished, but we need to get Gary home before those two kill 'im."  
  
"We've been tryin' to convince 'im to take a flight out of San Antone," Buddy grumbled, "but he's as stubborn as they come. Insists that he cain't wait to meet my folks. I tried to tell 'im that it meant drivin' clear across the state, but he don't seem to care. Either that, or he's too drugged up to understand that Houston ain't exactly next door."  
  
At the mention of Houston, Clay shot his brother a strange look. Before he could say anything, though, Ellie broke in.  
  
"This is all my fault," she sniffled. "If I hadn't insisted on that stupid picnic . . . and on horseback! He was in no shape for any of this to begin with!"  
  
Clay stepped up to his baby sister and pulled her into his arms. She resisted at first, more out of habit than anything, then leaned into his embrace and openly wept on his shoulder.  
  
"It's not your fault, sis," he told her softly. "If anyone's, it's mine. I was the one that got myself thrown in prison. I was the one that crossed paths with a psycho. And I'm the one they're really after, not Gary. Hey!" he exclaimed, pulling back a little. He put one finger under her chin and tilted her tear-streaked face up to meet his hopeful smile. "There's gonna be a family reunion next May. We'll all be there. As soon as we know the particulars, we'll arrange to get all of you invited to meet the rest of the clan. Cousin Lois says we've got a few dozen uncles, aunts and cousins we never knew existed. I'll have the whole lot of you flown up there and back. We'll spend a coupla weeks together, then. How does that sound?"  
  
"Just wonderful," Ellie sighed, burying her face against his chest once more. "You promise you'll be there?"  
  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Clay assured her. "Now, c'mon out and say 'good-bye' to Gary. He's been worryin' about you."  
  
"Me!" Ellie exclaimed, surprised. "Why would he be worried about me?" she asked as she dried her eyes with a tissue. "He was the one hurt! I just ran like a coward."  
  
Clay gave her a sad smile as he guided her towards the door. "Oh, I don't know," he replied. "He seems to have some crazy idea that you were blamin' yourself for all this. I tried to tell 'im that was nonsense. That 'Hard-Hearted Hannah' would never give it a moment's thought, but he thinks you're sobbin' yer eyes out over this."  
  
Ellie looked up at her tall handsome brother, wondering how she had never seen this gentle, caring side of him before. "I think I liked it better when I hated you," she sighed, leaning her head against his broad chest. "It didn't hurt so much to see you go."  
  
"I love you, too, sis."  
  
*****************  
  
They found a still groggy patient propped up on a wedge-shaped cushion that Polly had picked up at a medical supply center near the hospital. He opened his eyes as Ellie knelt by his makeshift bed and took his hand.  
  
"Hey," he murmured softly, gazing at her tear-streaked face. "Wha's wrong?"  
  
"I got you shot," Ellie sniffled. "Or have you forgotten so soon? I'm so sorry, Gary! I should've known better . . . the shape you were already in . . .Now this . . . I'm so . . .!"  
  
"N-not to blame," Gary told her, his voice still slurred from the drugs. It was obvious that he was fighting to stay awake. "Y-you didn't know 'bout those guys. We never tol' you. An' I knew wh-what kinda sh-shape I was in better'n you." He reached up gingerly, wiping a tear from her cheek. "N-not your fault," he reminded her. He closed his eyes briefly as the medication tried to drag him down into oblivion again. "Now, give me a hug and go on," he told her. "They tell me it's at least six hours to Houston from here, an' it's already gettin' dark." He bit back a groan as she obeyed his instructions with just a little too much enthusiasm, then looked her in the eyes once more as she drew back. "Y-you okay, now?" he asked. When she nodded wordlessly, he lay back with a sigh. "Good," he murmured, his eyes fluttering closed. "Be good to yourself, Ellie." His eyes sprang open as he recalled something he had wanted to tell her. "Z-Zeke," he said. "M-meant to t-tell you. He took all those jumps i-in the canyon like a champ. Great horse." His voice grew even fainter as the drugs kicked in once more. A moment later, he was asleep.  
  
Ellie kissed his hand, much as he had done hers the day before, and laid it across his chest. Wiping her eyes, she turned to see Clay watching her with concern. "I'm okay," she told him. Raising her chin, she met his gaze levelly. "He's been a good influence on you, big brother," she said. "Or something has. You're a lot more of a man than I remember. A much nicer man. I'm . . . I'm proud to call you my brother."  
  
"That musta hurt," Clay murmured, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming mischievously.   
  
"You have no idea," Ellie sighed. "It's not easy getting used to liking you. Not . . . not after a-a lifetime of . . . of hate. Of senseless, baseless jealousy."  
  
With a wry chuckle, Clay stepped up and pulled her into a gentle hug. He found that he liked feeling this close to his family, and regretted the years of lost opportunities. "If it helps," he told her, "I'll yank your chain every now 'n' then, just for old times sake."  
  
"That would help," Ellie giggled, relaxing into his arms. "Make the transition a little easier. That way I don't have to go cold turkey."  
  
"A firebrand like you?" Clay laughed, stepping back to look at her. "Not a chance. You'll be writing me nasty letters in no time. I'm sure there's a few names you haven't called me, yet."  
  
"Maybe one or two," Ellie smiled. "I'll have to check my list." With a shuddering sigh, she turned and took a step toward the door of the RV. "Gary's right. It's getting late. You guys need to hit the road if you want to get to Houston by morning." She paused at the door to look back at her cousin, then her brother. "You guys take care of each other. I don't wanna go to any funerals before that reunion." With that, she stepped out of the door and practically ran to the house.   
  
Bemused, Clay watched as she disappeared inside. For the first time that he could recall, he wished that he could stay longer. He felt closer to his family, now, than he ever had in his life. So long as Sykes and Hicks were on the loose, however, it wasn't safe. As the others came back from wherever they had gone to give them some privacy, he promised himself to come home more often. He needed to tear down some of the barriers that he had helped to build between himself and the people he could now admit that he loved more than anything.  
  
"Time to go, bro," Buddy said, clapping his brother on the shoulder as he settled himself into the driver's seat.   
  
"Yeah," Clay murmured as he pulled the door shut. "Time to go." To himself, he added a silent, 'For now.'  
  
*************  
  
Because they'd had such a late start, it was decided to pull into a campground just to the east of San Antonio. Gary had dozed fitfully most of the way, the pain medicine giving him little ease. No matter how he lay, now, he couldn't find a single position that didn't aggravate one injury or another. By the time they were settled in for the night, he was starting to feel a little warm as well as being too tired to make it to the big queen sized bed under his own power.   
  
Clay and Buddy half carried him to the back bedroom while Polly fixed him a glass of warm milk to wash down the medication. She hoped that the sedative qualities of the milk, in combination with the pain pills, would help him get the sleep his body needed to fight off infection. She hated that he was already flushed with a low-grade fever. He still seemed to have trouble sleeping at the best of times. Perhaps she should stay awake and watch him tonight?  
  
"Here ya go, sweetie," Polly told him, placing the pills in his hand. She waited until he had put them in his mouth and rolled the medication to the back of his tongue. "Now, drink all of this. It'll help you sleep."  
  
Gary made a face as he drained the glass. He preferred his milk ice cold. As a chaser to a big slice of pecan pie, still warm from the oven. This warm stuff was for little kids or old people. Handing the glass back to his self-appointed nurse, he eased back onto the mattress. Lying flat on his back seemed to be the least uncomfortable position he could find. Maybe because it was still a little numb. 'Funny,' he mused as a gentle fog slid over his mind. 'That shoulda worn off by now.'  
  
As Gary drifted off to sleep, the story Ellie had told him earlier replayed itself through his mind. Had it really been just a few hours ago? So much had happened in so short of a time! As his mind began to drift under the influence of the medication, he couldn't help but wonder what it must have been like.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The hot West Texas sun beat down heavily on the lone figure as he sat atop his trail-weary mount. The young bay whickered and shifted his feet as he cropped at the sparse summer grass. His rider rested one arm on the saddle horn, staring down at the scatter of dwellings that lay at the base of the gentle slope. Uvalde. A typical small town consisting of a general store, a bank and two saloons. With a few houses thrown in for variety. The main industry in this area was ranching. Dirt farmers had to scratch out a living as best they could while competing with the more prosperous cattlemen for what little arable land, and water, could be found in these parts.  
  
"C'mon, Zeke," he sighed, straightening up and flicking his reins. "We got work to do."  
  
Half an hour later, they strolled down the main street, stopping in front of the more impressive of the two saloons. This one had clean windows. The young man dismounted, slapping Zeke's reins against the hitching rail. The motion wrapped the leather straps around the post several times, effectively tethering his mount with no wasted effort. Shouldering his saddlebags and knocking some of the trail dust from his clothes, the tall, lean figure stepped onto the walkway and through the swinging doors. Warm greenish-brown, heavy-lidded eyes, the color of coffee with just a hint of cream, peered out of a deceptively youthful face. They swept the room as he pushed back his white, wide brimmed Stetson, revealing a thick shock of dark hair.   
  
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior of the barroom. It proved to be cleaner than most small town taverns he had been in, with few patrons at this time of day. Moving slowly, stiff from the many hours he had spent in the saddle, he stepped up to the bar.   
  
The slender young woman tending the bar had her back to him. She was dressed in a dark blue, low-cut, off-the-shoulder number that seemed to be the style for women in her occupation. She had her raven-dark hair carefully arranged in a loose coil, with a tortoiseshell comb holding it in place. Her skin, what he could see of it, was olive hued and smooth. When she turned to take his order, he was pleased to see that God had seen fit to be as gracious with her face as he had been with the rest of her. Generous, full lips framed a mouth that shaped a dazzling smile. And her eyes were a rich, dark brown of a shade so deep a man could fall right in and be lost forever. All this in a heart shaped face that seemed an artist's dream come to life.   
  
"What can I get you, stranger?" she asked. Her voice had a low, throaty quality that sent shivers up his spine.  
  
"Um, beer," he murmured, his own voice a little dry and husky. "I-if it's cold. Water, if it's not. Could you tell me where I might find the sheriff?" he asked as she poured him a tall glass of crystal clear water. "I rode by his office, but nobody seems to be there."  
  
"He's probably out looking for the guys that robbed the Overland stage," she shrugged, setting the glass in front of him. "That seems to be where he spends most of his time these days. You got some kinda trouble?"  
  
"N-no," the young stranger replied, taking a long draft of the liquid before answering. God, he was dry! "No, I just have to . . . to check in with 'im about . . . something. That's all. Any idea when he might be back??  
  
"He usually takes his lunch right here around one," she shrugged. "I'm Toni, by the way," she added, holding out a hand that fit perfectly into the rest of the package. "Do you have a name?"  
  
He had been staring at the slender hand as if mesmerized. "Hmm?" he mumbled. Quickly snapping back to the present, he took her hand in a firm, but gentle grasp. "G-Gary," he stammered. "Is there a boardinghouse in town? And a livery? I've been on the trail for nigh onto a week and I'd like to see if I remember what a bed feels like."  
  
Toni had to laugh at that. Pointing to a flight of stairs leading up the back wall, she told him, "We got a few rooms upstairs and a stable 'round back. Five dollars a week for the room, two for the livery. Two more and I can have Philippe draw you a hot bath."  
  
"That would be great," Gary sighed, placing two five dollar gold pieces on the counter. He took the key she gave him, shifting his saddlebags to a more comfortable position. "Thank you kindly," he murmured as he turned for the stairs. "If you could send that bath up right away? I don't care how hot it is, so long as you knock the chill off."  
  
"I'll see what we can do," she promised, her eyes mysterious. "Third room on the left is yours. The bathroom is second on the right." As he turned to go, she placed a hand on his arm and, in a breathy whisper, told him, "Mine is right across from yours."  
  
His sunburned skin reddened even deeper at her implied suggestion as he stared back into her ink black eyes. Gary seemed startled, at first, almost frightened. This was quickly replaced by a look of such infinite sadness . . . Toni had to wonder what tragic secret this soft spoken stranger was hiding.  
  
"I-I don't know that I'd be good company tonight," he murmured. He gently pulled his arm from beneath her hand and turned back the way he had come. "I'd . . . I'd better see to my horse. Can you ask that Philippe fella to have that bath ready by the time I get finished?"  
  
"No problem," Toni assured him as he disappeared out the door. "We'll talk later," she added to herself. "Count on it."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
An hour later, having seen to the needs of his mount, Gary was settling into the hot, soapy water with a heartfelt sigh. 'God!' he thought. 'That feels great!' He could already feel tense, knotted muscles starting to loosen up. 'I can do this,' he told himself for the hundredth time. 'Just a day or two, and I'm free to take care of my own business.' After a couple of minutes, he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Still . . . He looked over to where his long coat hung on a hook within arm's reach. Stretching just a little, he was able to dip into his right-hand pocket and pull out his long leather wallet. He didn't have much in it, just a few dollars, a couple of letters, and a much handled photograph.   
  
Gary pulled out the faded picture, staring at it with a longing and sorrow that he was unable to deny. Still, he would have to . . . for a while, at least. Just long enough to get this job finished.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"My, you clean up good," Toni observed as the young stranger came down the stairs sometime later.   
  
Gary nervously ran a hand through his still damp hair as he took a seat at a table in the back. He was dressed in a clean white cotton shirt, faded jeans, and the same well worn boots, having scrubbed what had felt like half of Texas out of his hair, and off of his hide. He had then scrubbed out his other clothes, leaving them to dry on the balcony railing. That little feature had been a pleasant, and welcome surprise. It could come in handy as more than just a clothesline.  
  
"You ready for some lunch?" the pretty brunette asked as she brought him a fresh glass of water.  
  
"Yes'm," Gary replied, a quick grin flickering across his pleasant features. "Anything but jerked beef and hardtack will do."  
  
"I think we can do better than that," she told him with a laugh. A few minutes later, she set a large bowl of beef stew and a plate of hot biscuits in front of him.  
  
Gary took a moment to savor the aroma of the hot, well seasoned food before digging in as if it were his first meal in days. A short time later, as he was doing equal justice to a piece of apple pie, his eye was drawn to the front door. He watched as a man wearing a tin star stepped through the swinging doors.  
  
He was a lean, gray haired, hawk-faced man with a high, broad forehead. He was quick to smile at everyone who greeted him, but Gary noticed that it seldom reached his eyes. Before he could take a seat at one of the tables, Toni approached him, laying a hand familiarly on one arm. She whispered something, pointing with her chin toward where Gary sat with his back to the corner. The older man nodded once before making his way through the light lunch crowd to Gary's table.  
  
Gary savored the last bite of his pie as the sheriff pulled up a chair. He didn't want to seem too nervous, trying not to arouse any suspicion. As it was, he was sure the other man could hear his heart pounding clear across the room.  
  
"I'm Sheriff Marley," the lawman introduced himself. "Toni tells me you were asking for me." It was almost a question.  
  
"Um, yes," Gary murmured. He fished a letter out of his shirt pocket and handed it to the older man. "I'm supposed to touch base with all the authorities along my route."  
  
Marley studied the letter carefully, then handed it back to the dark haired younger man. "Wells Fargo," he murmured, eyeing Gary speculatively. "They ship a lot of gold and currency."  
  
"Yessir," Gary nodded, tucking the letter back in his shirt pocket. "We're lookin' into alternate roads between El Paso and San Antonio. The road running through Uvalde is one of several we're considerin'. Do you have much trouble with the locals?"  
  
"A little petty theft," he shrugged. "A couple of stages have been held up, but I'm sure it wasn't by any of our people. So, this could be a boost for our little community. If we are chosen, how long before the first shipment rolls through?"  
  
Gary paused to drain the glass of milk Toni had brought to wash down his pie. "We're . . . I'm not really supposed to say, but . . . considerin' what you said about the holdups . . ." He looked up as another man came through the door, relaxing only when the stranger took a seat near the front. "They had to go ahead and plan a big shipment for this week. I'm mainly here as an advance scout. If everything is clear, then I send word back and go on to the next town. On the other hand, if I think a route is too dangerous, then I ride back to the last stopover, Del Rio in this case, and we pick another road."  
  
"That wouldn't be very good for us," Marley murmured thoughtfully. "We could use the extra business. You may not have noticed, but we're a bit off the beaten path, here."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed, pushing his plate aside. "Trouble is, those stage holdups. Once I report that . . ." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "My hands are tied. I'm gonna have to recommend a different route."  
  
Marley shook his head sadly, as if regretful that a few troublemakers could spoil everything for the whole town. "You said a run is coming through this week," he mused. "How much time do we have?"  
  
"I have to ride all the way back to Del Rio," Gary reminded him. "In order to get there in time, I'll have to leave at first light." He slid his chair back, preparing to leave. "I regret raisin' yore hopes, just to knock 'em down," he told the sheriff as he rose to his feet, "but I have to look after the safety of our drivers. You understand."  
  
Marley nodded wordlessly, his expression thoughtful as he watched the younger man return up the stairs to his room.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Warm, comfortable, and well fed for the first time in more than a week, Gary stretched out on the bed to await the next act in this little stage play. When that U.S. Marshal had approached him in Abilene, Gary hadn't known what to make of the man . . . at first. Was he looking for recruits, or laying a trap? Both, it had turned out. When he'd explained to Gary about the two stages that had been wiped out, passengers and all, the younger man paid rapt attention. The fact that two children had been slain in the second robbery had cemented his decision to help.   
  
"What we need is someone who knows the area," Marshal Canfield had explained, "but isn't known in the area. Folks I've talked to say that, over the past few months, you've ridden through every backwater and dry well in the territory, just about."  
  
"Did they tell you why?" Gary had asked cautiously. He hadn't liked it that this lawman had been asking people about him.  
  
"Not many knew," Canfield had nodded solemnly. "If you help us, you'll have access to every resource the U.S. Marshals and the Texas Rangers have available to help in your search. Will you do it?"  
  
Gary had reluctantly agreed. It had been the images of the children that had swayed him. In his mind's eye, he had seen familiar, beloved, faces on the bullet torn bodies of the little boys murdered in the last robbery. What kind of heartless monster could do such a thing? These holdups had to be stopped before more innocents were slaughtered.  
  
A gentle rap on the door interrupted his reverie. Gary swung his feet off the bed, quietly reaching under his pillow for his revolver. Slowly cocking the hammer back as he eased up to the door, he deliberately slurred his voice as he asked, "Who's there?"  
  
"Toni," a soft voice replied. "You decent?"  
  
Damn! He'd forgotten about her! "Just a moment," Gary said as he lowered the hammer on his pistol. He let his gun hand dangle by his side as he thumbed open the lock and opened the door.   
  
Toni's smile froze as she noticed his guarded expression. "If I'm intruding . . ." she murmured cautiously.  
  
"No!" he hurried to assure her. Gary swung the door open wider, smiling hesitantly as she stepped into the room. "Sorry. You caught me nappin'," he mumbled, as if still half asleep. He backed away from the door, the gun still dangling by his right leg.  
  
"You always sleep with that thing?" the woman asked, indicating the firearm.   
  
"Wha . . .? Oh, um, o-only when I'm on the road," he stammered. Gary stepped over to the bed and slid the pistol back into the holster hanging on the bedpost. "It pays to be cautious. Now, um, wh-what can I do for ya?"  
  
A slow smile stole across her face as she strode boldly up to the handsome young man, crowding him against the nightstand. "We-ell," she purred, running a finger down the row of buttons on his shirt, "I just thought, since you're obviously too much of a gentleman to go into a lady's room, I'd come to yours. If I have to tell you why, you've been alone with that horse too long."  
  
The off-color remark caught Gary completely off guard. His jaw opened and closed several times as he blushed a bright crimson. Then he started laughing. A single, startled bark, at first, then another as he gently pushed her back a step. He bit his lip, his shoulders shaking as he tried to stifle the guffaws that were trying to break through.  
  
"Where the blazes did that come from?" he chuckled as he wiped tears from his eyes.   
  
"Just wanted to see which way the wind was blowin'," Toni replied with a mischievous grin. "I'm glad you think it's funny. Probably means you like girls."  
  
"Oh, yes," Gary replied as he finally got himself under control. "I definitely think the Good Lord got it right with Adam and Eve. So, um, you . . . you wanted to . . ."  
  
"Well," she purred, "you did say you've been on the trail for . . . weeks."  
  
"N-not quite a week," he stammered, feeling a little hemmed in. "P-pretty close, though." He wiped the moisture from his cheeks as he side stepped around her. "I-I don't think you should be here, Miss. O-once people start talkin' . . ."  
  
"Ha!" she snorted, following him around the end of the bed. "They've been talkin' about me since I can remember." Toni grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. Putting one hand up to cup the back of his head, she pulled him down until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. "It's time to give 'em somethin' to talk about," she whispered.   
  
"I-I don't think . . ." Gary murmured.  
  
"Then don't." Toni raised herself almost on tip-toes, her lips lightly brushing his before giving in to the hunger that had been stirring in her since she had first spied this lean, handsome man. He resisted, at first, denying her entry to his innermost being. Then, as if he, too, felt the same need, his lips parted and his arms slid around her tiny waist. The fingers of her left hand intertwined themselves in his thick, dark hair as her right slid downward to . . .   
  
Cre-eeak.  
  
Gary broke off the kiss, his mind reeling as he turned to face the balcony door. A tall, broad shouldered man had one hand still on the knob as the other was bringing up his gun. Practically flinging an indignant Toni away, Gary rolled himself over the bed, snatching his gun out of the holster in a fluid motion that ended with him getting the drop on the intruder.   
  
"Just come right on in," Gary calmly told the stranger, emphasizing the order with a twitch of his gun barrel. "Miss Toni, why don't you go see if . . ."  
  
Gary never got to finish what he had to say, as a crashing pain shot through his head. Dazed, he fell to his knees, his gun spinning away under the bed. Painfully, he turned his aching head toward this new attack in time to see the vase in Toni's slender hands . . . just before a blinding flash, and then the lights went out.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
His head wasn't the only thing hurting when Gary came to some time later. His shoulders were burning. By contrast, he could barely feel his hands. Blinking back tears of pain, he slowly opened his eyes to find that his chin was resting on his chest . . . and he was no longer wearing a shirt. His arms were stretched straight above his head, out of his sight, but he could see his feet. Sort of. It was dark, but he could see well enough, by virtue of a light shining behind him, to tell that his feet were just barely touching the rocky floor of some kind of cavern. Or a mine shaft.   
  
Pain seared through the back of his head as he raised it enough to look around a little. Mine shaft, he decided, forcing his mind to function through the agony. Biting his lip, he tilted his head back even further, until he could see the ropes that were cutting off the circulation to his hands. Already, they were puffed and swollen.  
  
"So you finally decided to wake up," a familiar voice murmured in the semi-darkness behind him. "We were afraid she'd hit you too hard."  
  
Gary waited until the speaker had stepped around to stand in front of him. "Sheriff Marley?" he mumbled groggily. "Wh-what's goin' on? Why've you got me . . . got me strung up like this?"  
  
"Two reasons." Marley perched himself on a rocky outcropping, idly running what looked to be a coiled lasso through his hands. "One: we can't have you running back and rerouting that gold shipment. Two: we need to know exactly which road, and when to start watching for it. You may have noticed that there are a lot of back roads between here and Del Rio."  
  
A fact Gary was well aware of. It was why he had chosen that particular route for their little trap. In spite of the discomfort, Gary couldn't suppress a snort of laughter. "And why should I tell you anything like that?" he asked.  
  
"To spare yourself any more pain," Marley replied.   
  
The calm, matter of fact way he said it sent a chill up Gary's spine. For the first time, he noticed that it wasn't a rope in the renegade sheriff's hands. It was a whip. A particularly nasty looking variety with several tiny barbed tips. It was made for the express purpose of stripping the hide off of something. Or someone. It was custom made to inflict pain.  
  
"You can go to hell," Gary told him, his voice equally as calm. Inwardly, he was practically quaking with fear. Dying was one thing. He had lived through the worst kind of war any country could face, where death was a constant companion. He had no fear of death. What turned his insides to jelly was the idea of dying by inches. Of suffering horrible pain and mutilation. Which was apparently what Marley had in mind.  
  
The hawk-faced man stood up, a deceptively gentle smile on his lean features as he circled around behind his prisoner.  
  
"Why go anywhere," he asked, "when we can create our own version right here?"  
  
Gary tried to crane his head around to follow his captor, only to be stopped by the pain in his head and neck. Twisting his body around didn't help, either. His feet barely had any purchase on the ground as it was. Turning merely shortened what little play he had in the ropes that bound his wrists, making his feet leave the ground and spinning him back around.  
  
He was still trying to follow Marley with his eyes in some way when the first crack sounded, accompanied by searing pain as the barbed tips tore through tender flesh! Gary bit back an agonized howl, determined not to give his tormentor the satisfaction. Crack! Another white-hot lance of pain seared through the muscles of his lower back! Already, his vision was beginning to darken around the edges as he fought not to cry out. He had to make this convincing. If he gave in too quickly, they could become suspicious and the trap would fail.   
  
Crack!  
  
'I can do this,' he told himself as he fought the pain, and the urge to scream. He had been treated at least as bad in the prison camp before he had escaped. This would be a cakewalk.  
  
Yeah. Right.  
  
Crack!  
  
He counted six more before he stopped feeling anything at all.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Just make sure they're pressed for time," Canfield had told him the day before Gary set out from Abilene. "They have to think the gold shipment is gonna slip through their hands if they don't hurry. We don't want them to have time to get suspicious."  
  
"We've been over this a dozen times," Gary had replied solemnly. "You just get to work on yore end of the bargain, and leave me to take care of mine. I can hang in there a day or so, if I have to. Just have yore men in place and we'll catch these baby-killers."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Wake up, sweetie. You need to drink this."  
  
"God! He's burning up! What's happening to him, now?"  
  
"Yeah. He was fine a coupla hours ago!"  
  
"I don't know! We have to get some fluids in him, get that fever down. C'mon, sweetie. You gotta wake up just a little. Gary? Gary, you gotta . . ."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"Wake up, handsome. Drink some of this."  
  
A metal rim was pressed against dry, cracked lips. Cool liquid trickled past them, soaking into the parched tissues of his mouth. Gary let that first scant mouthful swish around, loosening the crusty film, which coated his gums and teeth. Another trickle, and he was able to expel the foul tasting mass.   
  
"Good man," a soft voice murmured. "You ready to talk yet?"  
  
Gary slowly raised his head for a moment, just long enough to notice that he was no longer hanging by his wrists. In fact, he was lying on his side on the cold, dusty floor of the mine. Iron manacles bound both hands in front of him, shackling him to a massive support pillar. As if they really needed them. His back and shoulders burned so fiercely that just the effort of raising his head had almost caused him to black out again. Answering at this time was beyond his power.  
  
A soft hand gently brushed sweat dampened locks from his forehead. "That's okay, cowboy," the woman crooned. "You go back to sleep. We've got time." The hand moved on to stroke the bare, blood-caked skin of his left shoulder, causing him to flinch involuntarily. "Lot's of time."  
  
Licking his lips, Gary made a dry, croaking sound. The closest he could come to speech, at first. "N-not . . . not if . . . if your . . . your sh-sheriff . . ." He swallowed painfully a couple of times, unable to go on.  
  
"I'll have a talk with him," the voice purred. The unseen hand trailed along the curve of his ribs, tracing a path to the belt of his jeans. "He just wants a little information, then we can find us someplace . . . private."  
  
A dry, choked laugh burst past swollen lips. "Y-you . . . b-believe . . . that?" he gasped. "Th-that he'll just . . . t-turn me . . . loose?"  
  
"Sure. Why wouldn't he? Just give him what he wants, and we go our merry way."  
  
Gary rolled halfway onto his stomach, trying to push himself into a sitting position. The resulting pain that seared across his back stopped him. He paused there, propped on his forearms, as fine beads of sweat popped out over every exposed bit of intact skin. 'I can do this,' he grimly told himself. 'I can damn well do this.' With a muffled grunt, he managed to pull his legs under him as he struggled into a kneeling position. He was finally able to look the young woman in the face as he spoke. Toni gazed back at him with an amused gleam in her eyes. She was dressed in a set of men's clothing that was at least a size too large for her tiny frame.  
  
"H-how . . . m-many?" he asked, his breath coming in labored gasps. "H-how m-many has he . . . k-killed?"  
  
Leaning back against the wall of the shaft, Toni rolled her eyes upwards as she calculated her reply. "Himself? Seven. If you mean in our little side venture . . . fifteen," she finally told him, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. "If you count the two agents for the Overland Express who came through last month. Why?"  
  
"And I-I'm an . . . an a-agent for W-Wells F-Fargo," he reminded her. "Wh-what do . . . do you think . . . he plans t-to do . . . with m-me?"  
  
Toni sat back, her face thoughtful. "I see your point." Her face fell as reality sank in. "Too bad," she sighed. "I really liked you, handsome."  
  
Gary sat back on his heels, his pain almost forgotten, as he stared at the young woman in open-mouthed amazement.  
  
"Th-that's it?" he asked. "Just, 'Too bad?' He's a cold-blooded m-murderer! He's killed children for God's sake!"  
  
"Granted," Toni sighed. "We shouldn't have done that. But what were we to do? They were too young to leave on their own, and too old to take a chance on them being able to point us out later."  
  
A deeper chill than he had ever known shook Gary right to the bone. 'We.' 'Us.' "You were there?" he asked. "You actually . . .?"  
  
"Of course," Toni smiled proudly. "Had to earn my cut. Besides, I'm the best shot in the whole gang. Now, why don't you tell me which road that gold shipment is coming in on and when is it due? J.T. can get real nasty with people who stand in his way." She leaned in close, the scent of her sweat filling his nostrils as she reached around him. He bit down on a sharp curse as she traced a slender finger along one of the deep gashes that crisscrossed his back. "This is nothing," she told him in a breathy whisper. "He has this little thing he does with branding irons. I really don't think you want him to get started on that. He's been known to get . . . carried away."  
  
Sickened, Gary turned his face away from the black-hearted beauty before him. 'How can such a lovely face hide such a hideous soul?' he wondered. Then he recalled the reason he was in this hellish situation.   
  
"H-how long . . ." he paused to swallow past the dryness in his throat. "How long w-was I out?"  
  
"A few hours," she told him with a shrug.   
  
Relieved, Gary let himself slump against the wall. He still had time. "So, it's still, what? Tuesday?"  
  
Toni sat back with a throaty chuckle. "You thinkin' that you still have time to warn your people?" she asked. "That knock on the head I gave you was just to keep you quiet for a spell. To get you here, we had to pour one of the doc's little potions down your throat. This is Wednesday morning. Face it, cowboy. Time is runnin' out."  
  
"For some of us," he murmured, too softly for her to hear. A stone rattled in the passageway behind him. Carefully turning the upper half of his body, Gary sought out the source of the noise. A reddish glow brightened the mineshaft as two large men walked in with a cast iron kettle slung on a pole between them. They set it down a few feet from the prisoner, giving him a good view of its contents. It was filled to the brim with white-hot embers. Two iron rods protruded from this grim montage. Toni's earlier warning echoed through his mind as the sheriff casually strode into the chamber.  
  
Marley was slipping on a pair of heavy leather gauntlets as he stepped up to the pot. Grasping one of the hot irons with a gloved hand, he withdrew it to reveal a glowing metal tip. Squatting next to the shackled prisoner, he held the branding iron just inches from the younger man's face.  
  
"Now," he sighed. "Where were we?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Make it look convincing, they had told him. After just a few applications with the red-hot irons, Gary figured he had gone above and beyond what anyone could reasonably be asked to endure. He told Marley what he wanted to know.   
  
"Good man," the renegade smiled beatifically. "Now, was that so terrible? Just think of all the pain and suffering you had to go through, just to tell me everything anyway. Wouldn't it have been so much easier just to cooperate?"  
  
"You're a sick bastard," Gary wheezed. "Y-you're s-sworn to . . . to uphold . . . the law. Pro . . . protect th-the t-town . . ."  
  
"And I do protect the town," Marley replied, his voice deceptively gentle. "None of this touches the citizens of Uvalde. Sykes and Hicks live well beyond the city limits. The 'good people' of the town still consider Toni an outsider, in spite of her having lived there since she was little more than a child. And I've only been sheriff here a few years. I was a hired gun in a small range war, at first. I kept it going as long as I could, but they eventually settled their differences in spite of everything. When they needed a lawman, I was the only professional left standing. Then the stage company decided they needed a shorter run from San Antonio to El Paso. Much like your company. As easy as that, we were in business. Sykes and Hicks had worked with me before, so they were eager to join up. And Toni? Well, I couldn't leave my little girl out of the fun."  
  
The bandit/sheriff spoke of this so calmly, Gary realized that he was quite likely the most evil creature that had ever crawled out of the lower sewers of Hell. The news that Marley and Toni were related made it easier to understand her actions. She had inherited her father's dark soul.  
  
"S-so," Gary stammered, "wh-what ha . . . happens, now?"  
  
Marley took the time to lay aside his instruments of torture before answering. He then squatted down to look into his prisoner's face.  
  
"Toni, Hicks and myself go to meet your friends," he replied evenly. "Mr. Sykes is going to join us later. After he's finished here. We can't let your body be found, you see. It might cause the good people of town to get suspicious. That wouldn't be in our best interests. Don't you agree?"  
  
Gary just stared back silently. He didn't want to let on that he was not as weak as his captors believed. In spite of the pain from his injuries, he still harbored hope of escape once the odds became tilted a little more in his favor.   
  
"Well," Marley sighed, straightening to his full height. "We'd best be going. You didn't leave us much time to prepare," he admonished his captive. "I hope this doesn't turn into a running gunfight. I've always found those to be much too chancy." He turned to the smaller of the two men, smaller being a deceptive term in his case. "Be quick about it," the sheriff told his man. "You don't have time to be creative. Besides, you don't want to miss all the fun."  
  
Toni squatted down next to Gary, gazing into his pain-filled eyes. "Too bad, handsome," she sighed, tracing a delicate finger along the line of his jaw. "Coulda been fun." Her hand slid down to a deep, oozing burn, her nails performing a teasing dance that brought a choked cry from her victim. "Especially now," she purred into his ear. Reluctantly, she drew back from her little amusement, holding a hand out so that her father could help her to her feet. "You had your chance, cowboy," the young outlaw told him as she turned to go. "Good-bye."  
  
A moment later, it was just Gary and his soon to be executioner. Sykes set about scattering the ashes and embers from the still glowing pot, making sure some of them rolled against Gary's exposed skin. The younger man jerked back with a choked cry. He tried not to react too strongly, as if he barely had the strength to get out of the way. As a result, he received another nasty burn on his left arm. He shot the brutish thug a venomous glare, giving the chains a weak rattle.  
  
"At least . . . at least let me die l-like a man," he pleaded. "N-not chained like an animal."  
  
"Why not," Sykes shrugged as he loomed over the helpless prisoner. "All the same to me. Less likely to give me any trouble this way."  
  
"So you . . . you gonna bury me h-here, then?" He scuffed his booted feet on the stone floor. "Hope . . . hope you brought a-a pick ax."  
  
Scowling, Sykes considered this problem. He could kill the agent where he lay, but Marley had insisted that the body not be found. Ever. That would mean dragging the carcass to a deep shaft further back in the mine. Or he could just march his victim back there and throw him in, an idea that he found appealing. The pit was deep enough to accomplish both goals at once. Sykes was a great believer in economy of effort.  
  
Chuckling evilly at this solution, the big man reached down and easily yanked the ring from the rotting timbers. Using the chain like a lead rein, he jerked Gary to his feet.   
  
The younger man swayed unsteadily for a moment, his head swimming. For a moment, he feared that he would blackout. Then his head cleared and he nodded to his captor that he could walk on his own. As soon as the taller man turned his back, Gary lashed out with his left foot, catching Sykes behind the knee. With a startled cry, the outlaw stumbled, releasing his hold on the shackles as he clutched at the nearest upright to maintain his balance. Gary quickly drew back with both arms and then swung the heavy chains with all his waning strength. His aim was true. The big eyebolt caught the other man just behind his right ear, instantly rendering him unconscious.   
  
The big thug had no sooner hit the ground, than Gary was on him, searching his pockets for the keys to the cuffs. A few moments later, he had removed the shackles from his own bloody wrists and used them to bind Sykes to a stone column. Let the big man try getting loose from that!  
  
Fortunately, there were few passages in this played out mine. Using the light from a torch he had snatched from the wall to follow the gangs footprint on the dusty floor, he quickly found his way out. Two horses were tethered just a few yards from the mouth of the tunnel. Gary was pleased to find that Zeke was one of them. He had grown to appreciate the heart and stamina of the young bay. Moving as fast as his injuries would allow, Gary clambered into his saddle, taking up the reins of the other horse before looking around to get his bearings.   
  
Toni had said it was still morning, he recalled. That meant the sun was shining on him from an easterly direction. Those hills to his left, he recalled, looked down on the town from the southwest. The road he had directed them to ran through a small valley near the base of the tallest one. The gang wouldn't have much of a lead on him. Gary still had time to let Marshal Canfield and his posse know that the trap was set. He would have to ride hard and fast to get ahead of Marley and his cohorts. Turning Zeke's head in the direction of the lawmen's camp, Gary gave the young steed a sharp kick on the flanks. Zeke leaped ahead, quickly achieving a full gallop. The other horse trailed behind. If Zeke tired before they reached the camp, he would switch mounts to spare the younger horse.   
  
This precaution proved unnecessary, as Gary found a pass that saved him several miles. It was still over an hour until noon when they stumbled into the clearing where the base camp had been set up just that morning. Exhausted, feeling everyone of his injuries with a vengeance, the young man had just enough strength left to dismount under his own power, and take two tottering steps toward the lawman's tent before his knees gave out. Strong arms caught him before he hit the ground, easing him onto a hastily spread blanket. Dimly, he heard muttered curses as a cup of cool water was pressed to his lips.  
  
Gary drank greedily, at first, then pushed the cup away, his news too urgent to delay. He turned pain-clouded eyes up to stare directly into Canfield's concerned visage.  
  
"M-Miller's Pass," he reported. "I t-told them . . . Miller's Pass. A-around one, like . . . like you said. N-not much time to get r-ready."  
  
"My men are already in place," the Marshal told the injured man, his voice gentle. "You've done your part, friend. Rest easy. We'll take it from here." Canfield tried to push the younger man down onto the blanket, but Gary refused to lie back.  
  
"I'm going with you," Gary insisted, struggling against the older man's restraining grasp. "There's just . . . just three, now, that I kn-know of." He quickly told of his findings in town and his subsequent kidnapping. "The girl," he concluded sadly. "I-I think she's the . . . the one that killed the ch-children. She's . . . she's as twisted as her father."  
  
"All the more reason for you to stay here," Canfield argued. "You're in no shape to go ridin' into a gunfight."  
  
"I-in no shape for . . . ridin' a'tall," Gary agreed. "I have to . . . to see this through, though," he insisted. "I can't . . . can't get the picture o' those baby's out of . . . out of my head if'n I don't."  
  
Canfield looked down at the younger man's earnest, pain twisted features. He had only figured on the outlaws beating the information out of the 'agent,' not on this hideous torture. With a sigh, the lawman nodded, giving in against his better judgment.   
  
"You'll stay back," the lawman insisted, "and out of sight. I can't keep my end of the bargain if you're dead."  
  
"Yes," Gary responded grimly. "You can, and you will. If you have to, y-you can tell 'em I died to make this t-territory safer for them. Don't think . . . don't think for a minute you'll get off that easy, friend."  
  
Canfield sat back with a sigh, amazed at the younger man's stubbornness. "Someone get this man a shirt," he called out to anyone in general, "before he freezes to death."  
  
"N-not much danger off that," Gary murmured, a strained smile turning up the corners of his mouth.   
  
Looking closer, Canfield knew what he meant. Gary's face was already flush with fever.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
"This isn't good,' a soft voice murmured. "Gary, you have to wake up, sweetie. Get me another pan of water, Jake. And ask Clay if he knows where that doctor went? His fever is gettin' worse."  
  
"They said he needs time for those antibiotics to kick in," a man's voice replied. "It's only been a few hours, Polly."  
  
"I know that!" the woman insisted. "I work around this stuff all the time. But, he should've come around by now. Instead, he's mumbling about outlaws, and holdups, a-and dead babies. It worries me that he's talkin' about death at all."  
  
"Just hang in there, Gary," the man sighed. "Just hang in there."  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The two men sat atop their horses, keeping out of sight beneath the crest of the hill. Another man lay on his belly just a few feet away. Concealed beneath a couple of small bushes, he had a pair of binoculars trained on the opposite ridge. He smiled as a brief flicker of reflected sunlight rewarded his patience.  
  
"They're coming, Marshal," the Ranger, Taggart, reported. "Four . . . no . . . six of them. You must not've seen the whole gang, mister," he added, glancing back at Gary.   
  
"I'd 've been surprised if I did," Gary murmured. He wiped his right hand across his fevered brow. The skin was still hot and dry to the touch, in spite of having drunk as much water as he could tolerate. There was no help for it. They had not seen fit to include a doctor in their party, and he dared not go back to the one in Uvalde as yet. He just prayed that he had enough strength left to see this business to its end. He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, wincing with a muffled hiss as the borrowed shirt rubbed across the mass of raw flesh that was his back.   
  
"I still say you should've stayed back in camp." Canfield grumbled. "You're in no shape to be here, friend."  
  
"I think we've already had, um, had this discussion," Gary replied grimly. "I'll stay back," he promised once more, "and out of the fight. But I have to . . ."  
  
"There's the wagon," Taggart hissed. A boxy looking conveyance, painted in red and with the words 'Well's Fargo' boldly emblazoned on the sides, was just entering the western end of the shallow valley. A team of four dark horses pulled it at a fairly rapid pace. The driver's seat was enclosed on both ends, and only one man sat atop it. "And there's our gang of cutthroats." Six riders appeared from amongst a copse of trees, riding hard to cut across the wagon's path. The deputy looked up at his commander, a questioning look on his face.  
  
"Wait until they've actually fired on the wagon," Canfield ordered. "Our boys are safe as long as they stay inside."  
  
Catching sight of the approaching gang, the driver flicked the reins, urging the team to break into a gallop. The lead rider aimed his gun and fired. And missed.   
  
"I would have to say that cinches the matter," Canfield nodded. "Let's finish this, gentlemen." With a loud cry, he spurred his horse into a full gallop, almost leaping over the crest of the hill. He was quickly joined by the third man who had scrambled into his saddle a moment after the first shot was fired. Gary rode as far as the crest before he was crisply reminded of his promise. "Stay out of this!" Canfield snapped.  
  
Fuming at having to sit on the sidelines, Gary reined in his mount. From where he now sat, he had the best view for what transpired next.  
  
Canfield and his deputy were only the vanguard of almost a dozen Texas Rangers. They galloped over the rim of the valley at a dead run, quickly moving to cut off the outlaws' only avenue of escape.   
  
Thwarted, Marley proved to be as insane as he was evil. With a wild, animal gleam in his icy blue eyes, the renegade fired at the on-coming posse. Screaming profanities, he charged the nearest of the riders, shooting him out of the saddle. As the deputy fell, his horse stumbled, leaving a gap for Marley and another, smaller, figure to ride through at breakneck speed. Behind them, Canfield spun his mount, taking careful aim. One shot and Marley fell from his saddle. A second shot missed the other rider, who spurred the hapless horse unmercifully, charging up the side of the hill towards Gary's position. Marshal Canfield and two rangers gave quick pursuit, but not quick enough.  
  
Thinking to block the outlaw's escape, Gary steered Zeke directly into the rider's path. As the other horse drew closer, he recognized the escaping figure as Toni. The look on her face was one that would give the devil nightmares. The same hellish light blazed from her angelic features as had marred the face of her father. 'Stop,' he silently begged her. 'Please stop. Don't make us kill you.' Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it was too late for her. She had long ago crossed the line into the realm of madness. Her words and actions back at the mine had already convinced him of that.   
  
Planting himself firmly into her path, Gary tried to reach for his gun. Already weak and feverish, clinging to his saddle by sheer will alone, he never had a chance. Toni leveled her six-gun at his chest . . . and fired. Without a moment's hesitation. At almost the same instant that he felt the bullet tear into his body, the black-hearted killer jerked upright, pulling back on the reins so hard that her horse stumbled to a complete halt. Her lifeless body was flung from the saddle, landing in a heap at the feet of Gary's steed.  
  
Numb, he stared down at the raven-haired beauty, saddened that it had come to this. His only consolation came in knowing that she and her gang would be killing no more children. Gary heaved a long, shuddering sigh, suddenly feeling cold and exhausted. Pain tore through his body at the movement. Looking down, he noticed the bright red stain spreading rapidly across his chest. A creeping darkness was already eating away at the edges of his vision. It was suddenly all he could do just to breathe.  
  
Strong arms caught Gary as his body slumped in the saddle. Eager hands eased him to the ground as muffled voices called his name.  
  
"Damn you, Chandler!" Canfield snapped. "Don't do this to me! Don't you dare die on me!" He yanked the bandanna from around his neck, wadding it up and pressing it firmly against the hole in the younger man's chest in a pathetic effort to staunch the outpouring of blood. "How can I help you find your family if you're dead?" he moaned. "Dammit! I got you into this! I'm . . ."  
  
A pale hand clamped over his arm, halting the flood of words. Canfield tore his eyes away from the awful crimson stain that was spreading over his hands to gaze into the clear brown eyes of the dying man.  
  
"N-not . . . not much y-you can do . . . here," he gasped. "Y-you g-got . . . got to k-keep . . . your p-promise." Briefly closing his eyes, Gary paused to lick suddenly dry lips before continuing in his halting plea. "Y-you find them. T-tell them that . . . that I l-love them . . . a-and th-that . . . that I'll be w-watching . . ."  
  
Whatever else he was going to say was lost as his strength failed him. The last thing Gary Chandler heard was the desperate voice of Marshal Peter Canfield calling his name.   
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 


	5. A Few Days In Dallas

"Gary! C'mon, fella. You've got to drink this."   
  
Gary stirred feebly as a strong arm slid around his shoulders, eliciting a pained protest. As his mouth opened just the tiniest bit, the rim of a plastic cup was pressed against his lips. Warm, bitter liquid slid down his throat, almost making him gag, it was so bitter.   
  
"That's a good boy," the oddly familiar voice murmured. "Drink it all."  
  
When he had apparently satisfied this command, the cup was taken away, and Gary was allowed to lie back. It took another moment for him to place the voice.   
  
"P-Peter?" he gasped. "What . . . what're you doin' here?" Feeling strangely weak, he tried to summon the energy to open his eyes. The simple act took a lot more effort than he thought necessary. Turning his head to look around took even more. "Wh-where . . .?"  
  
"Our Lady Of Sorrows," Peter Cain told him as he perched on the edge of the bed. "A little hospital a few miles outside of San Antonio. How're you feeling?"  
  
Gary took a moment to consider the innocent question. His perceptions were oddly skewed for some reason. The bizarre image of a wild-eyed, manic Toni Brigatti kept intruding on his thoughts.   
  
"I-I'm okay," he murmured. "I think. Feel really . . . D-did I, um, go . . . anywhere? I mean . . . was I always . . . here? Ph-physically, that is."  
  
"Twenty-four/seven," Peter assured him. "Why? Do you think you went somewhere . . . else?"  
  
"More like some . . . some when, if you get my drift," Gary sighed. He tried to push himself upright, only to fall back with a choked cry as pain flashed across his back and shoulders. Not to mention his poor, battered ribs. "Oh, man! Forgot about that." He fumbled for the bed controls until Peter pushed his hand back down.   
  
The Shaolin raised the head of Gary's bed until the younger man motioned for him to stop. He then slid a chair up closer to the bed and sat back down.  
  
"So," he sighed. "You think that you've been . . . 'traveling?' Again?"   
  
"S-sorta," Gary murmured. He looked around for a familiar face that was conspicuous by its absence. "Where's Polly? And the others? I woulda thought . . ."  
  
"If Polly's the woman who's been camped at your bedside for the last three days," Peter replied with a dry chuckle, "Dad had to practically give her the Vulcan nerve pinch to get her to lie down for a few hours. As for the 'others'. . . Where the hell did you find those guys? Even Dad's never seen anything like this! Four guys, apparently unrelated, who look enough alike to be clones. Talk about weird!"  
  
"Weird is more your field than mine," Gary sighed. His forehead creased as something else Peter had said sank in. "Three days? I've been out of it for three days?"  
  
"Pretty much," Peter nodded. "Dad and I just found out you were here last night. He saw right away that you weren't, exactly . . . all there, if you, um . . ."  
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed. He laid his head back as his meager store of strength threatened to fail him. Three days! These little 'trips' didn't usually follow real time so closely. The last few times, he had lived days in mere minutes. He mentioned that fact to Peter, wondering aloud why this time was so different. "Another thing," he mused. "The other times, I knew who I was, but not who I was, i-if you know what I mean. God! This is nuts! Things like this . . . They just don't . . . I mean . . . Not to . . ."  
  
"Ordinary guys like you?" Cain snorted with wry amusement. "Gary, when are you gonna get it through your thick head that you are far from 'ordinary?' You get a fortune-telling newspaper, delivered by an, apparently, immortal, omniscient cat. You use it to help people where any other man might use it to make himself rich. Or powerful. You are the most responsible, self-effacing person I've ever met outside of a religious order. And even most of them couldn't be trusted with something of this . . . this magnitude. You refuse to cut yourself any slack when things go wrong, taking full responsibility, even when you know you can't be everywhere at once. You seriously believe that it's your mission to save the world in secret. Like an undercover Messiah."   
  
"That's a little strong," Gary murmured sleepily. He was already feeling the strength drain out of him. "Undercover Messiah? Jesus in a trench coat? D-do I get a snazzy sports car? The one with the, um, the smoke screen, anointing oil slick, and holy water?" His voice was starting to slur as his eyes drifted shut.  
  
"Nah," Peter chuckled. "That's reserved for the Big Guy," he added as he watched the younger man slip back to sleep. "You just get a newspaper and a cat."  
  
************  
  
When Gary next awakened, it was to hear familiar voices murmuring just a few feet away.   
  
"You should've woke me up," Polly was grumbling. "I wanted to be here."  
  
"Your loyalty does you credit," Kwai Chang Cain's soft voice replied, "but you do our friend no service if you collapse from exhaustion. You needed rest."  
  
A third voice chuckled dryly. "Polly thinks she's 'Superwoman,' or something," Jake told them. "If we let her, she'd kill herself mothering every one of us. It's just been Gary's luck to actually need it."  
  
"I heard that," Gary mumbled thickly. Fumbling for the controls, he raised the head of his bed a little more. That was when he noticed the IV taped to his left arm. Frowning at the clear tubing, he decided that he really didn't like having needles stuck in him every time he turned around. The act of raising up sent a dull pain along his wounded back, causing him to close his eyes as he sucked in a pained hiss. "Um, I really gotta get me a new hobby. My collection of hospital pitchers is g-getting . . . expensive."  
  
He opened his eyes again as something was pressed against his lips. The senior Shaolin, make that Shambala Master, had another cup of what looked like green soup ready for him to drink. Gary sniffed at the brew suspiciously. "If there's ground beetles in there," he murmured, "forget it."  
  
"I used no insect or animal parts in this remedy," Cain assured him with a tolerant smile. "Only the herbs needed to . . . balance your chi."  
  
Taking the cup in one hand, Gary glanced from the murky contents, to the herbalist, then back at the green concoction. "Well," he sighed, "if anybody's 'chi' needs balancing, it's mine, I guess. 'Over the lips and through the gums,'" he quoted. "'Look out stomach. Here it comes.'" With that, he tilted his head back and drained the plastic cup. It was just as bitter as he remembered. His face scrunched up in a pained expression as he handed the cup back to the priest-cum-mystic. "God help! How many more of those do I have to take?"  
  
"That's the last one," Peter chuckled. "How do you feel?"  
  
Gary took a moment to take stock before answering the innocent question. He did feel better, more clear-headed than he had since that awful beating he had taken in 'Vegas. Not to mention that his ribs and leg seemed to hurt a lot less.  
  
"Better," he conceded. "A lot better, except for this God-awful taste in my mouth. Thanks." He looked around at the crowded room. Everyone was there. Polly, the twins, Jake, Peter and his father. All watching him anxiously. "I'm fine, really," he assured them. "S-so, what're our plans, now?"  
  
"That depends on you," Clay told him. "Or on how quick we can get the docs to turn you loose."  
  
"You gave us one hell of a scare, cuz," Buddy spoke up. "When you started mumbling in your sleep, and Jake couldn't wake you up, well . . ."  
  
"You were hot as a pistol, too," Jake added, concern still strong in his voice. "Polly said your temperature was up to 103°. We couldn't get you to the hospital fast enough to suit her. Or us."  
  
Their genuine concern touched Gary in a way that he had not been sure he could ever feel again. For so long, he'd felt that the burden of the Paper was his alone. Then Marissa had reminded him that he had friends and family willing and eager to shoulder some of the weight. Here, again, he was being shown that he was not alone. That here were people who knew little or nothing of his bizarre 'occupation,' who knew only that his life was troubled and chaotic. Yet, they openly cared enough about his safety and well-being to put their own lives on hold so that he could at least have a chance to lead a normal life. If only for a little while.  
  
"Th-thanks," he murmured. "Sorry to've scared ya'll so bad. I-I had the weirdest dream, though. A-about some gang that Ellie was telling me about, and a U.S. Marshal named, um, Canfield. Peter Canfield. He looked just like you, Peter. A-and . . . and Toni Brigatti was there. Sykes and Hicks were . . . And I was some drifter named Chandler who was . . . who was looking for . . . God! Chandler. Th-that's Dusty's last . . . and, um, Kyle. A-are they . . . ? It's . . . I can't remember all of it, but I . . . I died. Man, it was so weird!"  
  
Polly pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. "I thought we'd already had this discussion," she teased him. "Weird is normal for you, darlin'. Why don't you tell us about your dream?"  
  
Gary didn't need much urging. The dream had disturbed him so much, he was almost eager to get their input. He told them everything he could recall, even to feeling the bullet tear into his chest; of the chill kiss of death as the life drained from his body.  
  
"I-it was so real!" he insisted. "I mean, I can still f-feel th-the whip a-and the . . . the burns. B-but none o-of that was in Ellie's story! I-it was . . . twisted!"  
  
Clay looked thoughtful as he perched on the foot of the bed. "That may be because your version is closer to the truth," he murmured. "There was a writer fella nosin' around a few years ago who was sure that the story bein' taught as local legend was a pack of lies." He twisted his hat around in his hands, much the same as he was running ideas through his mind. "I think he lives around here, somewhere."  
  
Peter clapped the young cowboy on the shoulder as he turned for the door. "How about you and I go see if we can find him?" he suggested. "We can start with that bookstore down the street."  
  
The words and action caught Clay by surprise, so lost in thought as he was. "Wha . . .? Oh! Sure thing, Mr. Cain." He turned to his bed-ridden cousin. "It sure is good to see you alive and awake, Gary," he said, before turning to follow Peter. "Let's see what we can do about keepin' you that way."  
  
"Which way?" Gary chuckled dryly. "Alive or awake?"  
  
"Both, preferably," Clay grinned, "but, at this point, I'll settle for what I can get. Catch ya later, cuz." The young wrangler flipped him a wave and disappeared through the door, close on Peter's heels.  
  
As the door swung shut, they could hear the younger Cain tell him, "The name is Peter. Even my father doesn't like to be called 'mister.'"  
  
"Great," Gary sighed, looking at Buddy. "If he's gonna start calling me 'Cuz,' too, I'll never be able to tell you two apart."  
  
"How 'bout if I start callin' you Lazarus," Buddy chuckled. "Polly says you've beat his record for comin' back from the dead. Came awful close to addin' to the list, cuz."  
  
Gary shot Polly a speculative look. "It was that bad?" he asked.  
  
His friend nodded grimly. "Over 103° when we first checked," she told him. "By the time we got you to the ER, it had risen another three points. They had to reopen the wound and clean out some deep pockets of infection. What worried the docs most was how fast it took you down. You weren't out quite three days, but pretty close."  
  
"And you sat here the whole time?" he asked, touched by her concern.  
  
She just smiled and shrugged. "It's a small town," she told him. "Not much else to do."  
  
Returning her smile, Gary turned his head to look at the elder Cain. "Did you really do the Vulcan Nerve Pinch on her, or was Peter pullin' my leg?"  
  
"Nothing so drastic," Cain replied with a shrug. "I merely suggested she could do you little good if she were a patient, herself. Then I, how do you . . . ah! I slipped her a 'Mickey.' She was no trouble after that."  
  
Polly made a face as she related how easily she had been snookered. "I was drinkin' coffee like a caffeine addict," she told him. "After a while, he brings me a cup that doesn't taste quite right. Next thing I know, I'm in a room down the hall, and Jake is telling' me you're awake. That was this mornin'. I guess it knocked me out for about six hours."  
  
The idea of someone putting anything over on Polly tickled Gary for some reason. He could just picture her chagrined, and vocal, reaction when she woke up. She probably blistered the wallpaper in places! His shoulders shook with the effort to stifle his amusement, but the tears welling up in his eyes, and his tight-lipped expression betrayed him.  
  
"Go ahead and laugh it up," Polly told him, her own lips twitching. "Just remember that I'm the closest thing we have to a nurse on this little odyssey, and that makes me the one who gets to say when you're fit to drive."  
  
"Th-that's cruel, Polly," Gary chuckled. "Besides, we both know I can't handle that rig in the shape I'm in. I was just w-wondering if you left any paper on the walls."  
  
"Not much," she admitted, her grin finally breaking through. "I don't think Momma would've approved of my language, but it helped release some tension."  
  
"I can imagine," Gary replied, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his right hand. The movement tugged at the stitches in his back, but brought no real pain.   
  
"We didn't have to imagine," Jake chortled. "We could hear her all the way down the hall."  
  
"You could not!" Polly insisted indignantly, her face coloring in embarrassment. "Could you?"  
  
"He's yankin' your chain, Polly," Buddy sniggered. "You weren't that loud. The nurses had to put their ears to the door to make out what you were sayin'."  
  
Polly buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. At first, Gary thought she was crying. A thought which quickly sobered him. A little good natured teasing was one thing, but he hadn't meant to upset her! Then she wiped her face on her sleeve and he could see her biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud.  
  
"You guys are gonna pay for that one," she chuckled. "Just wait 'til the next time it's my turn to cook. You'd better load up on antacids."  
  
************  
  
It was sometime late that afternoon when Peter and Clay returned from their investigation. They had finally learned the name of the author from the bookstore, where his latest anthology was on display.   
  
"He's a teacher at the local high school," Peter informed them. "Legends and myths of the old west are his hobby."  
  
"He pads his salary with a book now an' then," Clay added. He handed Gary a small plastic sack. "Thought you might like a copy of his latest. It's on the local 'Best Seller' list."  
  
Curious, Gary slid the hardback book out of the bag and looked closely at the picture on the back of the dustcover. The author, David Taggart, smiled back at him from a lean, weather beaten face topped with a thick shock of sandy hair. Mr. Taggart seemed to be in his late fifties or early sixties, but still in excellent shape.  
  
"Look at the front," Clay suggested.  
  
Puzzled by the odd tone in his cousin's voice, Gary turned the book over. What he saw almost startled him into dropping it. There, underneath the title, was a reproduction of a faded black and white photograph. It had been much handled in its time, showing a deep crease down the middle. To Gary, the placement of the fold was almost symbolic. It separated the shyly smiling young man wearing the dress uniform of a Union cavalry officer and one of the children from the woman that stood next to him. Two more children stood before her, and two babies filled her arms. Somehow, Gary wasn't surprised to find himself gazing at an image of . . . himself . . . almost exactly as he had looked only a few years ago. It seemed . . . right somehow. What had shaken him so was the existence of the picture itself.  
  
"That's it," he whispered numbly. "Th-that's the picture from . . . from my dream. Wh-where did he . . .? I mean . . . it was just . . . just a dream! Wasn't it?" He finally looked at the title. 'Lost Heroes: The Truth Behind The Legends.'   
  
"It mentions an ancestor of mine on my grandmother's side," Peter told them. "He was a U. S. Marshal working out of Abilene at the time. I was named after him, wasn't I, Dad?"  
  
"Yes," Kwai Chang replied thoughtfully. "As I was named for my grandfather. I have not thought of them in . . . many years. His name was . . ."  
  
"Canfield," Gary murmured softly. "Peter Canfield. H-he was . . . was in my dream, too. And a Ranger named . . . Taggart. Th-this is . . . I can't believe . . . There's no way this . . . this can be real." But there it was. Solid evidence that he had not merely dreamed the events. That they may have unfolded exactly as he had seen them. "God!" he murmured with a shuddery sigh. "This is getting spooky!"  
  
"We called Mr. Taggart," Peter went on to say. "I just told him that I had an interest in that one story because of my great grandfather, but I didn't mention anything about you guys." His lips twitched mischievously. "He's anxious to meet another descendant of the posse. Little does he know."  
  
"I-is he coming here?" Gary asked hesitantly. "Is he . . . is he bringing the . . . the picture? I need to see that picture."  
  
"He's going home to pick it up as soon as school lets out," Clay assured his cousin. "This may answer a lot of questions. For all of us."  
  
Gary couldn't take his eyes from the cover photo. A family portrait. Two boys, ages about six and eight at the time of the sitting, stood in front of the woman. A little girl of about twelve stood next to her father, his left hand holding her close. The two babies, Gary was certain, were twin girls less than a year old. He felt that he even knew their names. His hand trembling, Gary traced the tip of an index finger along the angle of the smiling woman's jaw. A feeling of such longing came over him at the sight of her, it was almost like a physical pain.   
  
"Her name was Amanda," he whispered, unable to look away. "Amanda Beaumont. She . . . she was a-afraid of . . . of s-something. It scared her so bad, she abandoned her husband and daughter to . . . protect? Yeah, to protect the . . ." A dark shadow passed over his mind, and a chill shivered through his weakened frame. Suddenly feeling a little frightened himself, Gary let the book drop into his lap as his head fell back onto the pillow. His chest felt tight with emotions that weren't entirely his. 'What's happening to me?' he wondered in alarm.  
  
"I'm getting a bad feelin' o' déjà vu, here" Polly spoke up with a shudder. "Remember that fella in Chicago? Tony Greco? I think you've run into some more unfinished business, hon."  
  
Gary squeezed his eyes shut at her words. "That's what I'm afraid of," he sighed.  
  
"Tony who?" Peter asked, puzzled. "Did we miss something?"  
  
"Did you ever," Clay replied with a grim chuckle. He and Buddy quickly brought Peter up to date on the events since he and his father had last been in Chicago. Up to, and including, the most recent assault on Gary at the Treyton ranch. Jake listened attentively, as a lot of the story was new to him as well.  
  
As they went through the events at the auditorium, Peter shot Gary a speculative look, mixed with a tinge of amusement. No wonder his young friend looked so worn down! Whenever they spoke of Tony Greco's 'possession' of Gary, Kwai Chang listened attentively, a worried frown creasing his timeworn features.  
  
"This has never happened to you before?" he asked when they had finished.  
  
"N-no," Gary murmured, his voice tired and husky. "I-I've seen . . . things . . . b-but they've never . . . u-until . . . I don't understand any of this," he sighed, turning his head to look out the window. "Things were weird enough to begin with."  
  
"You have a gift, Gary Hobson," the elder Shaolin shrugged. "It can no longer be denied, and will not stay hidden. I believe it is separate from other . . . influences . . . in your life. Yet, perhaps these . . . other influences . . . triggered the growth of this gift."  
  
"So far this 'gift' has almost killed me twice," was Gary's grim reply. "I think I'd like to exchange it for a sweater." He turned his head to look at the older man. The look on Gary's face was as grim as his tone. "I've got people running around in my head, for Christ's sake!" he hissed angrily. "My own nightmares weren't bad enough? Now I have to live someone else's? No, thank you." Biting his lower lip, he looked away again. Polly was sure she had seen a gleam of moisture in his eyes. "I-I don't know if I can handle this," he added in a tight, strained voice. "I just . . . don't know."  
  
The others exchanged troubled glances. The three look-alikes seemed embarrassed at having to bear witness to this emotional display. It troubled them that, yet again, Gary was having to deal with a situation where they were powerless to help.  
  
***************  
  
They tried to distract Gary from his dismal frame of mind by questioning Peter and his father about their abrupt disappearance after the party. At first, it didn't seem to be working. As the Shaolin related what they could of their recent activities, however, Gary's natural curiosity won out. He began to ask questions, hesitantly, at first. Then with more confidence as they led him through a tale of mystery, intrigue, and mysticism. He soon decided they were making most of it up, but it made a fascinating diversion, nonetheless.  
  
Just as Peter was wrapping up his account of their escape from an enemy he refused to name, there came a tentative knock on the door. The portal eased open until a familiar head could peek around the edge.  
  
"Excuse me," David Taggart said with a hesitant smile. "They told me I could . . . Oh, my lord!" His jaw dropped as he stared at one after another of the four 'clones.' "This is . . . Well, no wonder you were so interested in that picture!" He quickly stepped the rest of the way into the crowded room. "Absolutely incredible! Are you guys quadruplets?"   
  
"No," Jake replied with a shake of his head. "Would you believe that, until a few weeks ago, I never even knew any of these guys existed? Yet, Gary and I," he added, "lived in the same city for years."   
  
"The rest of us hooked up for the first time a coupla months ago," Clay spoke up.  
  
"I'm Peter Cain," the younger Shaolin grinned, extending his hand. "I'm the one that called." He quickly introduced the others, running over a brief explanation as to how they had met.   
  
"Absolutely incredible," the school teacher repeated. "I, um, I actually met your great grandfather shortly before he died," Taggart said to Peter. "It was at a reunion of some kind," he explained. "I was about six, and he must've been close to a hundred. He could barely move, but his mind was as sharp as a tack. He was the one who first told me about the Uvalde Gang. May I?" He reached out and took the book from Gary's lap where it had lain, untouched, since he had dropped it earlier. "After that, I pestered my grandfather to tell me that story . . . oh, must've been a thousand times. Here we go," he added, having turned to the middle of the book. He handed it back to Gary. "As I grew older, I found that the people of Uvalde recalled it differently. So, I dug out the official reports, local newspapers and what have you, and tried to piece together something close to the truth."  
  
Still feeling a little . . . numb, Gary began to read. It was essentially as it had unfolded in his dream, except that it was told from the perspective of the two lawmen. The names of the gang members were a little different than he recalled. The woman had been named Teresa, not Toni. Marley had been Malone, but really had been the woman's illegitimate father. Most important, Gary Chandler had been right on the money. Little was mentioned about the mysterious young stranger. Only that Marshal Canfield had recruited him in Abilene, to help lure out the gang. He seemed to trust the younger man implicitly. It also mentioned that he had been badly injured, and had died bravely. Before he died, however, Chandler had charged Canfield with a mission.  
  
"It wasn't until the book was published that I was able to dig up any more on Chandler," Taggart sighed. "Which was . . . a pity. He was the real hero of the story. My great grandfather was the one who caught him as he stumbled his way to Canfield's tent. The man had been . . . tortured . . . horribly. Still, he insisted on bein' there when the gang was rounded up. Which," he sighed, "is where he died. The last thing he said was . . ."  
  
"'I'll be watching,'" Gary murmured softly. He was still staring at the page, but he was seeing a bloody hand clasped upon the arm of a desperately pleading man.   
  
Shocked anew, the schoolteacher stared at the man in the bed. "Exactly," he whispered. "How did . . . How could you know that?"  
  
"He wanted his family to know," Gary continued in a husky monotone, "that he loved them. That he'd always be watching over them. Even from the grave."  
  
Wordlessly, Taggart opened a manila envelope, withdrawing the all too familiar photograph and handing it to Gary.  
  
"H-he was a captain in the Union Army during the Civil War," Taggart told them, seeming to be a little unsure of himself, suddenly. "Chandler went behind enemy lines many times, gathering valuable information. He was twice caught and imprisoned, escaping both times in less than a week. He was reputed to have been a highly resourceful man."   
  
"What happened to his family?" Polly asked soberly. "Why was he havin' to search for 'em?"  
  
"There was an outbreak of small pox," Taggart sighed. "The oldest girl caught it. Chandler had survived it as a child, himself, and recognized the symptoms. He sent his wife and the other children to stay with her parents in Kentucky. They never got there. No one knows why, but she up and decided to head for Texas. Well, the little girl survived unscarred, which was a miracle in itself. Chandler left her with his folks in Ohio while he went to fetch the rest of his family."  
  
"That was when he found out they'd vanished," Gary murmured. He was staring, unfocused, at a point somewhere near the foot of the bed. "He was devastated."  
  
"Um, yes," Taggart nodded. "He questioned everyone he could find along the route they would've had to take, and finally found someone who told him that she and the other children had been on the road to St Louis. From there, he eventually tracked them to Abilene, Texas, where he lost the trail. It had taken him over a year, by that time, and he was getting real discouraged. According to Granddad, that is. No one ever said why Canfield approached him in that bar, or exactly what was said. The gist of it was that Chandler agreed to help Canfield, if the marshal would lend his resources to finding Chandler's missing family. Chandler died keeping his word," he added with a sigh. "It always rankled Canfield that he wasn't able to reunite the man with his children."  
  
The older man rubbed a hand through his hair as he began to pace the tiny room. "His wife, Amanda, for whatever reason, took the children and went to live with a friend on a farm outside of Lubbock, Texas. She died a few months later, no one knows how. The friend was a woman who was unable to have children of her own. Whenever she had seen Chandler coming, she'd tricked the children into hiding from him, telling them it was someone bad coming to hurt them. When Canfield tracked them down, he was furious. Chandler had been only yards from his children on two occasions and never known it. She wouldn't even tell him that the woman he loved had died. It was . . . tragic. So far as he knew, she had run off with another man."  
  
"So what did Canfield do when he found out?" Clay asked. "Did he leave the children with her?"  
  
"Hell, no," Taggart snorted. "He tried to get those kids back to their grandmother in Ohio. Trouble was, she had also passed away. The little girl she was taking care of had been taken in by a family that had moved just a month before. By the time he found her, she was grown up and married to a man named Metcalf. The other children had been living with his family while he tried to find her. He saw no reason to turn them out."  
  
"So they all have families here in Texas?" Buddy mused, starting to see a lot of things fall in place. He looked over at his twin. Metcalf, the teacher had said. And Evans. 'Oh, my Lord!' he thought. 'We're even related to that Blessing guy! How far does this family tree branch out?'  
  
"The oldest boy put down roots here," Taggart replied with a shake of his head. "The younger one went back east somewhere. He took the two youngest girls with him." He grinned ruefully. "The families of the boys were the easiest to trace, but the hardest, so far to catch up with. Tracing through the female bloodline is harder because of name changes and such. Anyway, the little ones stayed with the oldest sister for a while, 'til they both got married themselves. One to an Evans in Kentucky, the other to a man named Blessing who moved somewhere out west. Colorado, I think. I've been trying to track down their descendants, but . . ." He looked around at four identical faces. "I have an idea my search is over."  
  
************  
  
After another hour, and a dozen more questions, Taggart had to take his leave. He had to prepare a test for his class the next day. "If everyone aces it," he joked, "I'll have the whole class write you a 'thank you' note. Take care. Especially you, young man," he added with a pointed look at Gary. "You seem to be cut from the same mold as your ancestor. Don't follow his footsteps too closely, you hear?"  
  
"Try not to," Gary replied with a wan smile. He held up the book. "Thanks for the autograph. And the picture." The faded photo was once again safely tucked into its envelope.  
  
Taggart nodded sadly. "It was among your great-great granddaddy's things," he told Gary. "I reckon ya'll would know who it should go to better than I do. Canfield meant to give it to the oldest girl, but she was too angry at her daddy for not comin' back. and didn't want anything to do with him. Or his memory. Sad. None of them forgave him for not finding them, believing the lies their momma's friend had fed them. They never knew that his every waking thought was about them. How badly he wanted them to be a family again." He heaved a loud sigh as his hand reached for the door. "Tragic. When Canfield died, he left everything to do with Chandler to my great granddaddy. As the last living member of the posse, it fell to him to let Chandler's descendants know the truth. A truly tragic tale all the way around," he added as he stepped from the room.  
  
"You have no idea," Gary sighed, peering at the images on the book cover as the door swung shut. "It was killing him by inches, having his family torn apart like that. Never knowing what had happened to them. If they were even still alive. No wonder he couldn't . . . couldn't rest. God! My . . .our great-great grandfather. I still can't seem t-to get my mind to a-accept . . ." Gary rubbed a hand over his face as another shadow flitted across his eyes. "Um! Whoa! What was that?" He blinked rapidly to clear his vision.   
  
"What is it, Gary?" Polly asked anxiously. "Talk to me!"  
  
"I-I'm . . . I'm okay," he assured her. "Just . . . this weird . . . feeling . . ."  
  
"Describe it," Peter told him. "What kind of feeling?"  
  
"Like a-a weight," Gary replied. "A huge weight . . . just . . . vanished. First everything . . . sorta . . . flickered, then this . . . pressure was . . . gone."  
  
Kwai Chang stepped up to the bed, taking Gary's chin in a gentle grasp and tilting his face up to the light. "I believe your 'visitor' has gotten his answers," the elder Shaolin advised him. "You no longer appear to be carrying his chi."  
  
Gary sank back, letting his breath out with a loud 'Whoosh!' "Thank you, God!" he sighed. "I wasn't sure I had room enough for my own." Knowing that he was alone, once more, within his own mind was a great relief to Gary. 'So why,' he wondered, 'do I feel so . . . empty?'  
  
*************  
  
Things settled down after a while, and the twins and Jake retreated to the RV to let Gary get some rest. The elder Cain accompanied them, overtly to 'check out' their accommodations. In reality, it was his intent to assure their safety. Few could get close without the Shambala master being aware of their presence.  
  
"They couldn't be in better hands," Peter assured Gary and Polly as he settled into an armchair near the window. "He'll see to it that no harm comes to them."  
  
"I'll have to take your word for that," Polly murmured. She was squirming around in a recliner placed just inside the door. "So far as I'm concerned, these boys are my responsibility. I intend to see them safely home."  
  
Gary gave a startled grunt in response to her bold statement, while Peter just chuckled.   
  
"Boys!" the Shaolin snorted. "These are grown men! They seem to do a pretty good job of looking after themselves." He shot Gary an amused glance. "Most of them, anyway."  
  
"Ha-ha," Gary grumbled. "Very cute. Would you two like to step outside and talk about me in private?"  
  
"Just shut your eyes and get some rest, hon," Polly chuckled. "We hope to be springin' you from this place in the morning."   
  
"You sound more like my mom everyday," Gary mumbled sleepily. If forced to admit it, he was tired. In spite of spending the last few days in and out of consciousness, even when he wasn't aware of it, Gary felt as if he had run a marathon. Puzzled he asked Peter why that was.  
  
"It takes a lot of energy to 'channel' another soul," Peter shrugged. "What little they bring to the table isn't enough. They have to use some of yours."  
  
"Great great granddad used a lot," Gary sighed. "Almost as much as Tony. God! I still can't get my head wrapped around that." He looked drowsily around at his two friends. "Why don't you two go find some beds? I'll be okay."  
  
"Sorry, Gary," Polly replied with a tired shake of her head. "Until those two clowns are caught and back behind bars, I ain't lettin' you outta my sight. For some reason, those idiot's keep homin' in on you, instead of any of the others. It may be simply that, like the predators they are, they tend to single out the one least able to fight back. Regardless, I'm not lettin' those goons get another shot at you."  
  
Peter chuckled dryly as he propped his feet on the windowsill. "So far I've heard you call those guys 'clowns, bozos, predators, thugs, and goons," he said, his lips curved in a sly smile. "From what Jake had to say, you've toned down a little since 'Vegas."  
  
"Really?" Gary murmured, more than happy to shift the focus of this conversation. "Did she get a little . . ."  
  
"A little!" Peter snorted. "What was it you called them?"  
  
Red-faced Polly squirmed uncomfortably. "Nothin'," she mumbled, casting Gary a pained glance. "I was just blowin' off some steam."  
  
"Well, remind me not to get you royally PO'd, then," Cain replied. "According to the others, she called them something really colorful. 'Scum-sucking dogs?' Or some . . ."  
  
"Yella bellied, lily-livered, scum-sucking dawgs," Polly growled. "If yer gonna poke fun at me, at least get it right. And, yes, I did ask that officer if breaking every bone in their bodies with a brick bat could be considered self defense. They'd just beat the crap out of a friend of mine who was barely in any shape to defend himself! I was not in a charitable mood."  
  
"Polly gets a li'l . . . intense where her friends are concerned," Gary chuckled softly. His voice was growing sleepier by the second as his medication kicked in. "So, we're outta here tomorrow?"  
  
"As soon as the doctor turns you loose," Peter assured him. "We can be in Ft. Worth by tomorrow evening. So, do as Polly says and get some rest. I have some friends I want you to meet, and it may take us a while to track 'em down."  
  
"Frens?" Gary murmured faintly. "Wh-wha kinda frens?"  
  
"The kind that royally kick butt," Peter replied. "Now, go to sleep."  
  
**************  
  
Early the next morning, Jake and the twins awoke to find Kwai Chang fixing breakfast for them. After which, they crossed the parking lot to the hospital entrance. Inside, they found Peter and Polly standing around outside of Gary's door.   
  
"Doctor's in with him, now," Polly told them with an impatient sigh. "Once he's finished, they just take out the IV, he gets dressed, and we can go."  
  
"What are they doin'?" Buddy asked, rocking impatiently back and forth on his heels.   
  
"Just making sure he's well enough to leave," Peter smiled. "He was a pretty sick man there, for a while. It's not like he's ready to run a marathon, or anything."  
  
"What's with the change in plans?" Jake asked. "I thought we were going to Houston to see Buddy's folks?"  
  
"This friend I want you to meet lives in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area, now," Peter explained. "He has resources that we're gonna need. Until Sykes and Hicks are locked up, it's not safe to get anymore innocent people involved."  
  
"Shoulda thought o' that myself," Clay admitted. He looked toward the door for the tenth time. "How much longer . . .?"  
  
Clay's question was interrupted by the opening of the door. A tall, dark haired man in his thirties and wearing a white lab coat stepped out, almost running over Buddy.   
  
"Excuse me," he said, startled. "You must be the friends Mr. Hobson was telling me about. Either that or I need to have my eyes checked." He held his hand out to the man he had almost collided with. "Dr. Walls. He's . . . he's looking remarkably well this morning, all things considered."  
  
"So he's able to leave?" Clay asked anxiously. "He's okay?"  
  
"The nurse is taking his IV out as we speak," the physician replied, giving Clay an indulgent smile. "He needs to keep those stitches clean and dry, and his left ribs are still a little tender, otherwise he's fine. You might want to keep him on a soft diet for a few more days. Soups, stews, maybe even some salads. Nothing spicy. That means a lot of the local cuisine is off limits, I'm afraid." He looked around at the three younger men, an incredulous look on his face, before shaking his head and turning toward Polly. "He tells me that you've had some medical experience, Ms. Gannon, so I imagine most of his care has fallen on your shoulders."  
  
"The others do most of the heavy work," Polly shrugged. "I'm more or less the 'den mother' on this little field trip. I'll see that he sticks to the diet, though, and tend to those sutures. What about internal injuries? Any complications to watch out for there?"  
  
"His CT scan came back normal," Dr. Walls assured her. "None of his internal repairs have been compromised. Mr. Hobson is well on his way to a full recovery." He closed the chart he had been reading from, giving the 'triplets' one more speculative look, before shaking his head and turning to leave. "If you'll excuse me, I have other patients. None as interesting as this, but important nonetheless. Good day."  
  
As the doctor stepped down the hall and into another room, Polly turned to the three cousins. "Jake," she said, "you and Buddy help him get dressed. His back is still a little stiff, I'm sure. Clay, you go ahead and pull the RV up as close as you can. Gary was lookin' 'n' talkin' a lot better this mornin', but he's still a little wobbly." She turned to Peter and his father, for once looking uncertain. "Do you two have a car, or did you wanna ride with us?" she asked. "We have plenty of room."  
  
"I left the rental parked at the hotel," Peter told her. "If you don't mind swinging by there, we can pick up our things and turn it in."  
  
"No problem," Clay answered for her. "The sooner we hit the road, the better."  
  
**************  
  
Gary insisted on sitting up for the entire drive to Dallas, stating that he was tired of feeling like an invalid.  
  
"You guys 've been treating me with kid gloves since we left Las Vegas," he muttered irritably. "How about I at least help with the cooking, okay? Anything but lying strapped to that sofa for one more minute!"  
  
"No cooking while we're in motion," Clay reminded his cousin with a wry grin. "Maybe you can help Jake teach Polly how to play chess."  
  
"Oh, please!" the tech snorted. "Haven't I suffered enough humiliation? I'll never even make Junior League in that game. " She helped Gary get settled on the sofa, sitting upright, before taking her seat in the recliner. "I'm even lousy at checkers. Now, when you get ready to break out a deck of cards, there's still a thing or two you can teach me about poker."  
  
As soon as everyone was fastened in, they proceeded to pick up the bags Peter and Kwai Chang had left at their motel, and take the rental back to the agency. Gary took one look at the name of the motel and felt instant sympathy for the two Shaolin. The Casa Diablo must be a chain!  
  
A few hours later, they pulled into an RV camp on the outskirts of Dallas. A quick phone call to the rental agency and a van was delivered shortly after lunch. Once again, they chose to cook out, preferring to avoid gawking on-lookers.   
  
"That's probably how they're able to track you so easy," Peter suggested. "You guys do sorta stand out in a crowd. Hell, you are a crowd.!" He took a bite of his steak, glancing over at Gary. "You okay?"  
  
The semi-invalid member of their party was glaring at his salad and baked potato with a sour look on his face. "Fine," he grumbled. "I finally feel like eating something, and this is what I get." He stabbed at the lettuce with his fork. "Like I need to lose any more weight."  
  
"It's just for a few more days," Polly reminded him, attending to her own salad. "Besides, it beats Jell-O." She made a sour face as she bit into a crouton. "I'm gonna be on short rations for another thirty pounds. How soon can you hook up with these friends of yours, Peter?"  
  
"I'll make some calls tonight," the younger Shaolin replied. "We can probably drive out to his place tomorrow. You know, the martial arts are a good cardiovascular workout, and a great way to stay in shape. Have you considered that for losing weight?"  
  
"No time for regular classes with my schedule," the tech replied. "Long walks and lots of fiber is all I've got going for me at the moment."  
  
"Come see me when we get back home," he told her. "You, too, Gary. It wouldn't hurt you to learn how to defend yourself a little better."   
  
"Now, gee," Gary grumbled. "Why didn't I think of that? My schedule's even worse than hers. Can you work around that?"  
  
"Private lessons anytime one of us is available," Cain promised. "What could it hurt?"  
  
Gary paused with a forkful of potato halfway to his mouth. He gave Peter a look that clearly asked 'Where the heck have you been?'  
  
"Seriously," Clay murmured. "You could use somethin' like that, Gary. The way you've been dumped on lately, you need to learn, just to stay alive."  
  
"Yeah," Buddy grinned. "Gives a whole new meanin' to 'kickin' back.' From what you've told us, Peter's dad could've taken those two yahoos in his sleep. It took, what, both of us, that Blessing fella, two wranglers and four cops to take 'em down last time."  
  
Jake nodded at that reminder. "And that was after Polly and I'd tangled with 'em," he said. "Yet, I've seen little bitty guys take goons like that down like bowling pins. You know, I wouldn't mind a few lessons, myself. I'm sure the three of us . . ."  
  
"Would anyone mind if I at least wait 'til the stitches come out?" Gary asked. He set his fork down with a sigh. "I know you guys are just looking out for me, but . . . give it a rest. Please?" He looked up to find everyone staring at him, a variety of expressions on their faces. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "Th-that was . . ."  
  
"Nothing of consequence," Kwai Chang replied in his quiet tones. "Of late, you have . . . redefined the meaning of the word . . . 'pressure.' What you are most in need of . . . is time."  
  
That statement seemed to puzzle everyone but Peter.  
  
"T-time?" Gary asked. "Time to . . . to what?"  
  
"To understand yourself," Peter told him. "You've had so many changes thrown at you in such a short time, you haven't had time to adjust. This time last year, you were still in a wheelchair. Since then, you've had your life threatened more times than the President, been chased all over the city, literally met yourself going and coming," he added, casting a significant look at the twins, "been possessed . . . twice now, even had the chicken pox. Face it, this isn't exactly what you guys planned when you left Chicago, is it? When you get home, you need to take a vacation to recover from your vacation."  
  
"Now there's an understatement," Clay chuckled. "I've been hurt less during the entire rodeo season than Gary has in the past ten days."  
  
Gary had picked up his fork and was poking at his salad in a desultory fashion. Without raising his head, he glanced at the Shaolin. "Y-you really think that's all I need?" he asked hesitantly. "Just . . . time?"  
  
"That and a bulldozer to get those two guys off your back," Peter dead-panned. "Whoa! Did you see that? He almost . . . yes! He actually smiled! It's a miracle!"  
  
"Okay! Okay!" Gary chuckled. "I get the message. Enough with 'Gloomy Gus.' I'll behave. So, um, this . . . this friend of yours. You never said what he does for a living."  
  
"I didn't?" Peter asked in exaggerated innocence. "Must've slipped my mind."  
  
The four look-alikes exchanged questioning glances. Gary had a sneaking hunch that Peter was up to something. And why did the younger priest have that strange smile on his face every time he looked at Buddy?  
  
************  
  
They spent the early part of the next day showing Gary some of the more impressive sights of Dallas, starting with Fair Park. Polly enjoyed the Natural History Museum, while Gary was more interested in the nearby aquarium. Later that afternoon, they took him to tour downtown Dallas.   
  
Gary almost panicked when the twins decided to check out the Sixth Floor Museum. Just standing across the street, looking over at the 'grassy knoll,' sent shivers down his spine. Long buried memories of a 'dream,' of a desperate race against time and the weakness of his own battered frame caused him to break out in a chill sweat. He found that he couldn't even look up at the empty window without feeling a tightness in his chest. Just the idea of going through that door broke him out in a cold sweat! Reluctantly, at the urging of the others, he finally agreed to take the tour rather than try to explain why he couldn't.  
  
Just stepping through the front door set his heart to racing. For the briefest second, he could feel the texture of the wooden handgrips on the crutches, the way his sweat-slick palms tightened around them. There was a moment of panic at the thought of trying to struggle up six flights of stairs! Gary kept his fists clenched as he stepped into the elevator, recalling the laughing faces of workmen stepping out, lunch pails in hand, excited about the chance to see the President in person.  
  
"You okay, Gary?" Polly asked in concern. "You're lookin' a little pale."  
  
"I-I'm fine," he lied. "J-just nerves, I guess."  
  
Tracing the actions of the assassin prior to, and after, the shooting presented no problems for him. These were areas where he had never set foot, in any sense. The sixth floor, however, was an altogether different matter. So, of course, that was where they had to go first.  
  
The moment Gary stepped into the recreated scene, his mouth became as dry as dust. He stopped before getting within arms reach of the 'stacks.' Once more he heard the smooth, silken voice crooning words of reassurance to a man desperately seeking help . . . from the wrong source. Felt the surge of adrenaline as he swung the crutch to knock the gun out of Marley's hand. Felt those same hands grasping at his throat . . .!  
  
"Gary? Are you okay?"  
  
"Huh? Wh-what?" Gary could barely get the words out past the dryness in his mouth and throat. Yanking himself back to the present, he looked around at the six anxious faces. Swallowing hard, he bobbed his head up and down to indicate that he was, indeed, 'okay.' "I-it's just . . . I-I mean I thought . . . S'cuse me." Without another word, he turned and practically ran back to the elevator. Reaching it, he frantically punched the call button several times before stepping back to wait for its return. A second later, he punched it again.  
  
Peter and his father found him pacing frenetically between the elevator and the door to the stairs, wiping at the sweat beading his pale brow with equally moist palms. His breath was coming in a harsh rasp as he fought to regain control.  
  
"I'm sorry!" he rasped. "I'm so sorry! I tried. I really tried but . . . but I can't go in there. I can't . . . can't stay . . . in this place. I can't." He stopped pacing long enough to hit the button again. Hard. "What is wrong with this thing?"  
  
"Take it easy, Hobson," Peter advised, easing up to the distraught man. "You want out, we'll go. It's not that big a deal. We told the others to finish the tour, and to take their time, so the three of us can talk privately. If the elevator is too slow, we can take the stairs."  
  
"No!" The look Gary shot him bordered on sheer, animal panic! "N-no," he continued, still fighting for control. "I-it's okay. I-I'll wait. S-see? Here it comes. I'm okay. I'm okay." He sounded as if he were still trying to convince himself.   
  
The doors finally slid open to disgorge another tour group. Gary was practically dancing with impatience by that time, rubbing his sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans as he waited for the last rider to disembark. He grabbed the door as it started to close, flinging himself inside and punching the button for the ground floor before the Cains were all the way in.  
  
"Talk to us, Gary," Kwai Chang said. "We can do nothing to help, if you do not let us."  
  
"Not here," Gary murmured, his voice still tight, strained. "I have to get out of here."  
  
It wasn't until they were seated at a coffee shop, across the street from the museum, that Gary was able to talk. He sat with his back to the window, unable to even look at the building that housed the grim exhibit. Both hands were wrapped around a Styrofoam cup that he had yet to take a sip from. He was turning the cup back and forth, trying to still the trembling in his hands. Even though he was facing away from the Book Depository, he could still feel it, looming menacingly behind him.   
  
"I never . . . never told you about . . . about last year," he murmured, his voice still dry and husky. "There w-was this . . . this accident. I, um, I f-fell down the stairs a-at my loft." He haltingly related the events that led up to his being confined to a wheelchair for the better part of a year. And the 'dream' where he was sent back in time . . . in stages . . . to rescue the man who would have to rescue him more than twelve years later.  
  
"It was so real," he rasped. "So real. Later, when Mom found that letter I wrote . . . the one I wrote i-in the . . . that dream . . . I don't know what's real anymore! I guess I put it out of my mind because i-it scared me so bad. Just now . . . just now it all came back. All of it. Everything I thought, or felt, or even thought I felt." Head bowed, he clasped both hands to the back of his neck. "Oh, God!" he moaned. "How do I explain this to the others? They already think I'm a basket case. They'll be looking up 'Rubber Rooms' in the Yellow Pages after this."  
  
"Leave that to me," Peter told him. "Right now, we need to figure out something to get your mind off of this. How does the zoo grab you?"  
  
When they rejoined the others at the van, Peter told them that Gary had become overly 'sensitive' to psychic impressions left in the building. That he had 'tuned in' on the strong emotional imprint left behind by all the people who had witnessed, or been involved in the actual event.   
  
"That's been known to happen to people who've had Near Death Experiences," he told them. "Their minds become more receptive to the 'residual energy' left behind by traumatic events. From what he's told us, Gary went through a number of NDEs last year. After that many, he's probably super sensitive. It's kinda freaked him out a little because he wasn't expecting it. It's also a pretty good bet that this is why all these . . . 'others' keep hitching a ride in his psyche."  
  
"Gary needs something . . . relaxing," Kwai Chang told them. "A distraction. Peter tells me that there is a wonderful zoo nearby. Perhaps he will find it more soothing to embrace the natural, rather than the supernatural."  
  
The others quickly agreed, apologizing to Gary about overriding his objections to the tour. He, in turn, asked their forgiveness for ruining their outing. Polly, ever the pragmatist, suggested they have a hot meal before doing anything else, having noted that Gary was still shivering.   
  
After a while, as they strolled slowly through the enclosures, Gary could finally feel the tension start to ease. As he watched the antics of the Tamarind monkeys, he even managed to forget about the Paper, the cat, and the fact that two myopic thugs had twice tried to kill him. By mistake. It still worried him that they might catch one of the others alone, as they had him. True, with his wrists already injured as they had been, as they still were, he had been unable to strike back effectively, even if the opportunity had arisen. Would one of the others have been able to defend themselves more effectively, he wondered?   
  
At one point, Gary asked Peter if their was anything that he could have done to defend himself, given the circumstances.  
  
"Not without training," Peter told him truthfully. "You were already weakened from previous injuries, then mentally traumatized by that near miss with the bull. You were so off balance, the only things you had going for you were endurance and stubbornness. That and pure luck. If Polly and Jake hadn't come along when they did . . ."  
  
"That wasn't by chance," Gary told him. He repeated what Polly had told him about the dream she'd had the night before he was attacked. The one that had driven her to hop the first airliner headed for the gambling Mecca. Jake's presence, apparently, was the only coincidence.  
  
"Weirder and weirder," Peter murmured. "Sounds like you two are linked somehow. Have there been any other incidents like that?"  
  
"Not that I'm aware of," Gary shrugged. They were trailing a couple of yards behind the others as they toured the Gardens. "She did show up in the nick of time once before, right after the . . . that concert," he stammered. "I'd still like to know where she got that . . . What's so funny?"  
  
"I'd 've paid double to see that concert," Peter chuckled. "Did you really get up in front of all those people and sing?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary grumbled. "Everyone keeps making jokes about record deals, and telling me what a 'wonderful voice' I have. I-I wish they'd let it drop. They even got Dusty Wyatt to go along with it. He came by the hospital the next day with some guy claiming he worked for a record label."  
  
Buddy had chosen that moment to stop and see what was holding them up. He grinned when he overheard his cousin's complaint.  
  
"That was no put on, cuz," he told them. "I've got my agent workin' on the best deal, right now. By the time we get back, you could have a whole new career choice open to ya."  
  
"You see what I mean?" Gary sighed. "It never ends. It's one big joke to . . ." Buddy and Clay both were looking at him, both wearing sympathetic smiles. "You're not joking? They really want me to . . .? Please tell me you're joking!"   
  
"You want Jake to be your manager?" Clay grinned.  
  
Gary buried his face in his hands. "I wanna go home," he whimpered.  
  
**********  
  
Clay and Buddy were still busy comparing notes as they walked back to the van later. While they had been waiting for Gary to recover from his latest setback, Treyton had revealed that his family had lived on the outskirts of Houston before moving to Uvalde. Buddy had been stunned, at first, then excited as he recalled a number of times when he must have been mistaken for his twin.  
  
"You got me in a lot of trouble," he complained good-naturedly. "For the life of me, I couldn't figure why they were so sure I broke that store window."  
  
"Now ya know," Clay chuckled. "Just think of the stuff we coulda gotten away with if we'd known." His eyes widened as he recalled an incident that had puzzled him for years. "Is Buddy your Christian name or a nickname?"  
  
"Nickname," Buddy answered. "Why?" His smile faded, to be replaced by a look of dawning horror, as he realized what his brother was grinning about. "No. Please don't. Tell me you don't know my real name." When Clay just grinned and nodded, Buddy covered his face with both hands to hide his embarrassment. "Don't tell anyone," he pleaded earnestly. "You never heard that name! Even my parents aren't allowed to call me . . ."  
  
"What's the holdup, Beauregard?" Peter asked as the rest of the party caught up with them.  
  
Buddy turned a peculiar shade of green as the others stopped in their tracks to stare at the young songwriter.  
  
"Beauregard?" they chorused.   
  
"You told 'em," Buddy groaned, his face twisted in dismay. "Man! I can't believe you'd do that to your own twin!"  
  
"Not me!" Clay chuckled, raising both hands in protest. "I just now recollected bein' called that a time or two. I just thought those people 'd lost their minds. It never occurred to me that someone would actually do somethin' like that to their own son!"  
  
"Beauregard?" Polly snickered. "You poor baby!"  
  
Gary rubbed one hand over his mouth as he fought not to laugh out loud. "B-Beauregard, huh?" he finally managed with an almost-straight face. He bit his lip and looked away, unable to meet his cousin's pained look. Suddenly, his own problems seemed minor, by comparison. "Beauregard. I-I thought you said they loved you," he commented in a tightly controlled voice.   
  
"They do!" Buddy grumbled indignantly. "My adoptive parents are from a very old, southern family. I was named after a paternal ancestor who fought in the civil war. No relation to ol' Stonewall, so far as I know. Anyway, they didn't want people callin' me 'Beau' an' comparin' me with that football player, so they started callin' me 'Buddy' by the time I was six. It stuck, thank you, God!"  
  
"Sounds like the best thing that ever happened to you," Jake chuckled. "I'll bet you caught hell in school."  
  
"You have no idea," Buddy sighed. "By the time I got to high school, I was scheming ways to get out on my own and away from that God-awful name!" He gave Peter a baleful look. "Where'd you hear it?"  
  
"From the guy we're gonna meet in a few hours," the young Shaolin replied, still grinning. "When we came through town on our way to . . . our recent . . . diversion, I ran into him and we got to catching up on latest happenings. Anyway, I showed him that article with your picture in it, Gary. The one where you saved little Teresa Han. One thing led to another, and he mentioned how much you looked like a young man he used to know. Seems this kid was one of his 'projects' when he lived in Houston for a while. But, my friend's fiancée only knew this kid by his given name. The rest . . ." He held both hands up in an apologetic gesture. "It's been running through my mind ever since I saw the four of you together. Sorry it slipped out."  
  
"Not half as sorry as I am," Buddy grumbled as he climbed into the van. "I think I know who yer friend is. And his fiancée. I also think it's time to have my name legally changed."  
  
**********  
  
It was a little after four when Peter guided the van up to a two-story ranch house beyond the outskirts of the city. The roof of a barn could be seen through a screening of trees. As the van pulled past the front walk, they caught sight of a corral adjoining the stables. A petit, slender woman with short blonde hair was seated on the top rail of the corral. She turned at the sound of their tires crunching on the gravel drive, tossing them a cheerful wave as she spied them. The jeans-clad figure said something they couldn't hear to the bearded man leading a tan and white 'painted' horse around the enclosure. When he spied his visitors, he nodded before taking the horse back into the stables, closely followed by the woman. A few minutes later, the couple emerged from the front of the building.  
  
"Good to see you again, Peter," the woman said, giving him a quick hug. She looked over his shoulder as the others disembarked from the van. "Oh my," she murmured. "Is this what you meant by a little problem?"  
  
"Not exactly," the younger Shaolin chuckled. "Alex Cahill, Assistant DA, and Cordell Walker of the Texas Rangers, allow me to introduce my traveling companions. You know my dad, of course."  
  
Kwai Chang took Alex's hand and gave her a courtly bow. "It has been much too long," he told her.  
  
"Likewise," she replied, favoring him with an impish smile. "How did your, what did you call it, a 'Dragon's Wing?' How did that go? Did you . . . accomplish whatever you . . .?"  
  
"It was a 'smashing' success," Peter assured her quickly. "Next we have the self-appointed den mother of this group, Pauline Gannon."  
  
"Look's like you have your hands full," Walker commented, taking her hand in a firm grip. Polly did not strike him as the 'touchy-feely' type. He was right.  
  
"These boys have been perfect gentlemen," she assured him. "To tell you the truth, I've been more of a nurse than anything," she added with a pointed look at Gary. "And I answer to Polly."  
  
"Now, this next part is a little tricky," Peter remarked dryly. "You guys will just have to step up as I say your name, okay? You may recall this first one. Mr. Jackson?"  
  
As Buddy stepped forward, Alex's smile brightened. "Beauregard?" she cried. "Oh my God, it is you! I haven't seen you since . . . since you went on the road with Wyatt Chandler. How have you been?"  
  
"I'd be a lot better," he murmured with a pained look, "if you'd forget you ever heard that name. It's Buddy."  
  
"Oh, dear," the future Mrs. Walker giggled. "I'd forgotten how much you hated that name. I'm so sorry . . . Buddy." She looked behind him at the others. "You did it. You found your family. Oh, I'm so happy for you! I always hoped you would. But this must have been such a shock! Imagine finding out that you're a quadruplet!"  
  
"Actually," Buddy grinned, "I'm a twin. The other two are cousins. You may 've heard of Clay Treyton."  
  
"All Around Cowboy," Walker smiled, taking the younger man's hand. "Three years in a row, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yessir," Clay grinned, as he shook the Ranger's hand. "This isn't the first time we've met, though. You might recall chasing after a kid down an alley on the north side of Houston about twenty-two years ago. You, um, you shouted out a name," he added, glancing sideways at Buddy. "I thought you were really mad at me!"  
  
The Ranger looked from one to the other as he tried to recall the incident. "Both of you lived in Houston?" he murmured in amazement. "And you never knew?"  
  
Both men just smiled and shook their heads, then stepped aside as Peter introduced Jake. Finally, he turned to Gary.  
  
"And this is the fella I told you about the last time I was here," he said. "Gary Hobson. He and Clay are the ones with the big problem." He quickly explained about the two attempts on Gary's life, as well as the fact that the two thugs were actually after Clay.  
  
Cordell Walker looked Gary up and down appraisingly. Although his resemblance was just as uncanny as the other three, there were now unmistakable differences. Gary had a more drawn, almost haggard look. He was also thinner and paler than the other three, and he still favored his right leg a little. There was also just the faintest trace of a scar on his left cheek. While the others had ready smiles and wisecracks, Gary was more cautious. As if he were uncertain exactly where he stood. If even half of what Peter had told the Ranger was true, it was no wonder. He took the younger man by the elbow and started leading him toward the house.  
  
"Why don't we all sit down and hash this out over supper," he said. "We have a mutual friend whipping up a Chinese dinner for us. Hope you like it hot."  
  
"W-within reason," Gary replied hesitantly. "But I'm on a bland diet for a while," he hastened to add at a sharp look from Polly. "M-maybe some noodles?"  
  
"Fried rice should be okay," Polly relented. "I'll see if we can't fix you up somethin' special."  
  
Alex plied the twins with questions about their families, asking if Buddy had gone back to Houston to see his parents since finding his brother.  
  
"Not yet," he told her. "We wanna get this mess cleared up, first. There's no tellin' what those two mighta done to Ellie if Gary hadn't drawn 'em off. I don't want to put my folks in that kinda danger. There'll be plenty o' time to see 'em later, when it's safe."  
  
"Sound thinking," Walker nodded. "Gary, I've heard good things about you. My friend tells me you have an unusual gift."  
  
Startled, Gary shot Peter a look that bordered on panic. Puzzled, the young Shaolin just shrugged and shook his head. He hadn't mentioned anything about the Paper, or any 'gift.' So, what had the lawman meant?  
  
"I-I'm not . . . not sure what you mean," Gary stammered.  
  
At that moment, a short, stocky oriental man with dark 'salt and pepper' gray hair stuck his head out the front door. "You are here," he said. "Good. We can eat now, talk later." He started to duck back inside, then shot the four look-alikes a startled look. "Gary Hobson?"  
  
"S-Sammo?" Walker's cryptic statement suddenly made sense. Sammo Law had been in Chicago on the trail of antique smugglers a couple of years before. The stocky Chinese had saved Gary on two occasions when he had crossed paths with those same criminals. He had, at first, thought Gary was involved with the smugglers. Later, he had decided that Gary was just clairvoyant. "Wh-what're you doing in Dallas?"  
  
"I am on vacation," Sammo shrugged. He peered closely at the four younger men. "You have found new ways to confuse me."  
  
"N-not intentionally," Gary stammered. As they entered the house, he quickly made introductions, promising details for later. "I-it's a little complicated," he murmured as they were led onto a lighted patio. "A-are you still with the LAPD? I-I haven't heard anything from Steve Sloan and his dad in a while. How're they doing?"  
  
"They are well," the stocky detective assured him. "He told me of your difficulties last May. Are you fully recovered from your wounds?" he asked, noting how stiffly the younger man was moving.  
  
"Those, yeah," Gary murmured, ducking his head to escape the older man's searching gaze. "These are more . . . recent."   
  
Watching him try to steer the conversation away from himself, Alex felt her heart go out to this reticent young man. Where the others seemed outgoing, even exuberant at having found each other, Gary Hobson appeared . . .wary. As if constantly waiting for the next shoe to drop. As they all took their seats around the table she could see the others casting him the occasional watchful look. Their concern for him was strongly evident, and touching.  
  
Polly checked over the selection of dishes Sammo had prepared, and quickly helped Gary load his plate. During the meal, she and the others carefully steered the conversation away from touchy subjects, trying to keep the atmosphere relaxed and open. Even Peter, who was usually itching to get down to business, managed to restrained himself. After awhile, the tension lines around Gary's eyes and mouth began to ease, and he was able to join in with some confidence, even so far as to laughing at some of Clay's off color jokes.  
  
Glancing over at her fiancé and his friend, Alex could tell that they had noticed it, too. There had to be a lot more going on than just a pair of escaped convicts on a 'head hunt.' The others were much too protective of a certain barkeep. It wasn't until they had moved their conversation into the den, however, that they were able to get to the reason for this visit.  
  
Clay quickly told of how he had first encountered Jaggs, and the trouble that had led to his being placed on Death Row. It then fell to Gary to tell of the beating that had landed him in a Las Vegas hospital, and the wild chase on the Treyton ranch in Uvalde. He spoke in low, subdued tones, downplaying his own role in leading the chase away from the innocent witness. A glance at Clay and Buddy's guarded expressions made Alex pretty sure there was more to the story. She decided that she would have to work on them later, in private.  
  
"Tell him the rest," Peter quietly urged the younger man. "About the dream. His great grandfather was in the posse, too."  
  
"What posse?" Walker asked. "He was a Ranger. Great granddad was in a lot of posses."  
  
"This one left some unfinished business," Peter told him solemnly. "A dying man's last request. Tell him, Gary. It's your story more than anyone else's."  
  
Hesitantly, feeling oddly . . . exposed, Gary related the dream and what they had subsequently learned from Taggart, grandson of the last surviving member of the posse. He then showed them the picture he still carried in his jacket. Gary had been reluctant to part with it for some reason. It was as if some part of Chandler still lingered within him, longing for what he had lost.  
  
"I-I kinda thought that . . . that I should make copies," he stammered. "Give 'em out at the family reunion this coming May." He looked at his cousins before continuing. "If no one minds, I'd like to have the original framed and hang it in the bar. M-maybe put it out on the internet to see if anyone else . . . any other 'lost' Chandlers are out there. I-I think, maybe, that's what he wants. That and to know what really happened to his wife. H-how she died, why she ran, things like that."  
  
"You are a man of many facets, Gary," Sammo murmured. "And many gifts. Perhaps you should try to get in touch with the spirit that may still dwell within you."  
  
A look of alarm crossed Gary's pale features as he turned to the two Shaolin. "Y-you said he was gone!" he said, his tone almost accusing. "That . . . that his 'chi,' or whatever, h-had left!"  
  
"I said only that it appeared so," Kwai Chang gently reminded him. "Things that you have said and done since then have made me question this. At the very least, some part of him still seeks answers to the questions you, yourself have posed."  
  
This was not what Gary had wanted to hear. He pushed himself to his feet with obvious effort and began pacing anxiously in front on the fireplace. One hand at his waist, while the other rubbed the back of his neck, he tried to make sense of his predicament.  
  
"I don't need this," he sighed. "I really don't need this." Gary looked over at Polly. "I don't know if I can go through that again. I almost died last time."  
  
"Last time?" Walker asked, frowning in puzzlement. "What happened last time?"  
  
"That was different," Polly tried to reason with her friend, ignoring the Ranger for the moment. "Tony was still alive. This guy has been gone a hundred and thirty years. He's just . . .just looking for answers"  
  
"Then why can't he look somewhere else?" Gary demanded. "Why do these . . . these 'restless spirits' keep picking on me? Like my life isn't complicated enough. I wasn't just having to deal w-with hitmen, and those NSA guys, a collapsed lung, and a broken arm! I had to have some guy crawlin' around in my head who was in love with the woman trying to kill me! He didn't wanna die, so he almost takes me with him! Now . . . now I've got s-some ancestor who wants me to find out what happened to his missing wife! Where does it end? Wh-where do I even begin to look?"   
  
This last was said in such a despairing tone, Alex feared that he was on the edge of a complete breakdown. She glanced over at Cordell to see the same worries reflected in his eyes.  
  
Gary stopped his frenetic pacing, leaning both hands on the mantel. With a weary sigh, he shook his head and stepped away from the fireplace. "I need some air," he murmured. "Excuse me."   
  
Polly moved to block his way as he turned to go back out to the patio. "You don't need to be goin' anywhere alone," she told him. "It's not safe."  
  
"Safe?" he repeated with an incredulous chuckle. "Polly, I'm not even safe inside my own head! How can I be safe anywhere else? Now, please? I-I need to be alone . . . to think."  
  
Polly held his troubled gaze a moment longer, then, reluctantly, she stepped aside to let him pass. When Clay made as if to follow him, she shook her head.  
  
"Let him be," she told him. "All this has been worse on Gary than any of ya'll."  
  
"Ya think?" Jake snorted. "I can't even imagine what he's going through, right now. Th-this is totally outside my experience! I mean, I've studied law, and business. I know you have to get inside the heads of the . . . the opposition. How do you deal with an opposition that is literally inside yours? He has to be scared to death that he's losing his mind! Especially after what happened today. He's got a ton of questions and nowhere to turn for answers. As he said: Where do you begin?"  
  
"By looking within," Kwai Chang shrugged. "We must speak with the soul of his . . . your ancestor. Learn exactly what he needs. He may be able to guide us to the answers he seeks."  
  
"That'll mean putting him under again," Buddy sighed. "He wasn't real crazy about that the last time."  
  
"I'm . . . I'm feeling a little lost," Walker commented. "Would anyone like to step in here and fill us in? Please?"  
  
*********  
  
Later, after she figured that Gary had been given enough time to settle down, Polly went looking for her young friend. She found him sitting in the shadows, his back against a retaining wall. He had his legs drawn up, his chin resting on his knees.   
  
"Ready for company?" she asked him.   
  
"I guess so," he murmured. He was staring at the moonlight reflected on the water in the pool. All he could see was blurred patterns of light and darkness. "What do I do, Polly? How do I deal with something I can't even touch or see? I mean . . . I'm already up to my eyebrows in weirdness. Have been for a long time, now. This . . . this is beyond weird. It's insanity."  
  
Polly settled down within arm's reach of him with a muffled grunt. "It's not that much weirder than knowing where to find trouble before it happens," she shrugged. "Kwai Chang thinks we need to put you under again. Try to talk with this Chandler fella. He . . . he also think it needs to be done at the grave of Amanda Chandler."  
  
That got his attention. Gary looked at her like she was the one in need of help. "That's all the way back in Lubbock," he said. "Over three hundred miles west of here! Do we even know where she was buried?"  
  
"Not yet," Polly replied honestly. "We're hoping Mr. Taggart can help us there. We have to go back to San Antonio and look him up. Peter wants us to go through all his notes, see if we can narrow the search area a little."  
  
"That's an awful lot of driving. Wh-what about . . .you know . . . the not-so-dynamic duo?" he asked hesitantly. "They'll be after us all the way."  
  
"I know," the tech sighed. "Walker and Cahill think they might be able to help us, there. It'll be a running battle, more or less. They're in there brainstorming, now. Ideas are bouncin' around like ping pong balls. Sooner or later, someone will get hit with a good one."  
  
Leaning his forehead against his knees, Gary couldn't suppress a choked laugh at her picturesque analogy. A moment later, he leaned back against the wall, wiping unseen tears from his cheeks. "You, um, you sure have a way with words," he remarked with a muffled sniff. "Tell me what you think, Polly. What should I do?"  
  
"You do what anyone else would do in your shoes, sweetie," she told him. "The best you can."  
  
************  
  
When Gary finally felt ready, they went back inside to find things pretty much as they'd left them. The twins and Jake were huddled in one half of the room, while the Cains, Sammo, and Walker were pouring over a road atlas spread open on the coffee table. Alex Cahill was conspicuous by her absence.   
  
"Did we drive her out?" Polly asked.   
  
"She had to make a few phone calls," Walker told her. "We need to get a little more on these two, figure out what they're likely to do next."  
  
"We already know what they want," Gary murmured. "Clay's head. Or mine. I don't think they care which, at this point."  
  
"They're probably following the Winnebago," Clay spoke up. He and the others broke up their huddle at the sound of Gary's voice. "How ya feelin', Gary?"  
  
"I-I'm okay, now," he assured them. His face had taken on a reddish hue, and he was having trouble meeting their eyes.. "Sorry about . . . you know."  
  
"S'okay, cuz," Buddy told him. Carefully putting his arm around Gary's shoulders, he guided his cousin to a seat. "As Peter said, this hasn't exactly been the vacation we had in mind for you. Our only concern, right now, is to get you and Clay out o' this mess." Looking at the other two, he added, "Hell, we're all in this boat, together. It was all fun and games, at first, us lookin' so much alike. We even managed to put it to some use, to catch that hit squad. Now, it's sorta turned sour on us. The same thing that saved your butt in Chicago, is likely to get one of us killed here."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. "I just can't help but feel it's my fault. You guys would still be back in Chicago if you hadn't . . ."  
  
"That's not true, Gary," Clay told him. "I was supposed to be in the National Finals, remember? And that benefit rodeo before that. I woulda been the one lyin' on the floor of that stable, not you. Only I wouldn't 've had anyone there who cared enough to come lookin' for me when I turned up missin'. That beatin' you took, and that bullet, they were meant for me. And those buzzards won't stop until someone is dead."  
  
"As for this other thing," Jake spoke up, "I'm still a little . . . I mean, I wasn't part of this group when . . . were you really possessed?"  
  
"The way Mr. Cain explains it," Gary murmured, "it's more like what they call 'channeling.' The chi, spirit, whatever of another man who . . . he was Italian! I don't see how he could be related to us, at all. A-anyway, he was dying and he, um, he had some . . . unfinished business. The problem was, he didn't want to . . . to let go. In the end, he almost waited too long. By the time we'd . . . I didn't have any strength left to fight him. They'd put me under once to find out what was going on. Why all my tests kept coming back so screwy. Why I kept having these dreams about the people who were . . . were trying to kill me. The next time, it was to get him to . . . to pass on. The hold he had on me was so . . . strong! H-he was dying, and he was taking me with him."  
  
"So, how did you get him to let go?" Jake asked. Buddy and Clay were listening intently. They had also been curious about that, but had never found the right time to ask.  
  
"I don't really know," Gary admitted. He was seated on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined. "They put us in the same room," he murmured, "and I-I sorta remember someone, Claire, I think it was, talking to me. 'Guiding me under,' might be the proper term. I was barely conscious, anyway, so it didn't take much. Then, I was in this . . . other room, and we were talking. T-Tony Greco and me. I don't re-remember what we said, o-or if we did anything. I-it seems like there was someone else there, but I can't quite . . . I-it's fuzzy. When I came out of it, I was told that Greco had come out of his coma. He, um, he said a few things to his mom . . . then he was . . . gone."  
  
This was the most he had spoken of the incident since leaving the hospital. It still haunted him, to some extent. He would occasionally walk down a street he had never been down before, finding things that seemed familiar. Stood in front of a door, knowing exactly what he would find inside if he ever had the courage to step through it. It frightened him to think that some part of the young 'soldier' lingered within him. Would the same prove true of Captain Chandler? Would Gary find himself driving down some back road and seeing things as they had looked almost a century and a half ago? Would a picture in a museum trigger some long forgotten memory? A memory of something that had had happened to a man long dead?  
  
Alex Cahill came back into the den as he was finishing his narrative, her face grim.  
  
"We have more problems," she told them. "Jaggs was smuggled out of prison sometime today."  
  
Clay jumped up with a choked, angry cry. "H-how could that happen?" he sputtered. "The man was on Death Row!"  
  
"He still has contacts on the outside," Alex explained. "You remember how easy it was for him to keep in touch with his suppliers? Well, one of his guards was found dead . . . two miles from the prison. When they went to break the news to his wife, they found that his home had been broken into and . . . I don't think you want to know the details. We believe that Jaggs put out the order to use the woman and their child to force the guard to smuggle Jaggs out of Death Row and out of the compound. He couldn't have done it alone. Not with all the security measures they have. They have their eye on a likely suspect, but the damage is done. Jaggs Neff is loose."  
  
"Oh man!" Clay murmured as he paced nervously before the fireplace. "Oh sh--! Sorry, ma'am. That . . . I'm sorry. It's just . . . no one is safe with that animal on the prowl. When it comes to killin', he don't need a reason. He killed my friend, Littrel, because I crossed him! All Littrel did was introduce us, and he was forced to do that. He did it himself, just to show that he could. He likes to kill! The uglier he can make someone die, the better he likes it."  
  
Walker stepped in front of the frantically pacing man, taking him by the arm. "Okay! We get the message," he said evenly. "He's dangerous. We also know he's not playing with a full deck. So let's sit down and figure out some way to stop him." He gently, but firmly led Clay back to the sofa, sitting him down beside Gary. "So far, the only real advantage we have, is that he wants your head on a plate," he told Clay. "Trouble is, his goons keep going after Hobson, here. What if he makes the same mistake again?"  
  
"Now there's a cheery thought," Gary mumbled. "Thank you so much for reminding me."  
  
"Sorry," the Ranger chuckled softly. "I only meant that, so long as we keep all four of you under close watch, he has to come to us. And so do the others. It also means you're gonna have more company on this little 'hayride' of yours."  
  
***********  
  
It was quickly decided that everyone would stay at Walker's place that night and they would start their preparations early the next morning. As soon as the sleeping arrangements were made, Polly broke out one of the clean dressings provided by the hospital and took Gary into one of the spare rooms to redress his wound.  
  
"Lookin' good," she told him as she swabbed it with antiseptic. "No busted stitches, or signs of infection. Your bruises are clearing' up nicely, too. How do those ribs feel?"  
  
"Touchy," he grudgingly admitted. "My health insurance premiums are gonna shoot through the roof." He sat as still as he could while she taped the new dressing in place. "This is crazy, you know that? Going all the way back to San Antonio, then up to Lubbock, to try to find the grave of this poor woman who died over a hundred and thirty years ago. Just so her equally dead husband, can know what happened to her. I-I know they're my great-great-grandparents, and I should . . . should feel . . . something. All I feel is . . . numb. Tired. I-it's just so . . . weird!"  
  
"And this differs from your routine . . . how?" Polly teased as she smoothed down the last piece of tape. "Seriously, Gary, I'm not sure how much of this I really believe in. Or how much the others believe. I do know that there are forces out there that I can't explain, and they all seem to be focused on you, right now."  
  
"Lucky me," Gary snorted, carefully slipping his t-shirt back on. "I wouldn't mind if these 'forces' looked somewhere else for a while. All I wanted was a little time off. I mean, the last year or so has been . . . rough. I'm tired, Polly. Really, really tired. I need to get a little balance back in my life. Just a little. Is that so much to ask?"  
  
Polly shook her head sadly as she packed away her supplies. "If it were mine to give, hon," she sighed, "you'd have a month doin' nothing but basking in warm sunlight on a sandy beach. Or hiking in the mountains, fishing, skiing . . . whatever does the trick for you. But it's not. And it kills me that I don't know how to fix this. All I can do is help you with the problem at hand. Right now, that means getting you to take these pain meds so you can sleep. Tomorrow we go pick up the RV and hit the road. Again. Who's idea was it to drive all over the country, anyway?"  
  
"A mutual decision by the others," Gary chuckled. "They wanted to give the bruises time to fade before we went home. I think they're afraid of Mom."  
  
"Well," the tech grumbled, "they better hope nothin' else happens, or they're gonna have to start bein' afraid of me. I'm like you. Enough of this crap. Let's get off this merry-go-round and go home."  
  
Gary shook his head with a rueful smile. "First we have to get those killers back where they belong," he told her. "While we're at it, we need to lay a few ghosts to rest. Who knows? We might even clear up the mystery of Amanda Beaumont Chandler."  
  
***********  
  
Early the next morning, Cordell and Sammo retrieved the RV while the others took the opportunity for a real shower. Although Gary still had to settle for a tub bath, and having Jake wash his back. Later, after Polly had once again checked his sutures, Gary joined the others at the breakfast table as they were deciding how to divide the passenger load between the two vehicles. It was soon decided that the original party and Kwai Chang Cain should remain with the RV, to avoid suspicion. Peter, Cordell, and Sammo would be about a mile or so behind them in Walker's truck.   
  
Alex would remain in Ft. Worth to help keep things coordinated. They tried to persuade Polly to remain behind, also, for her own safety. They quickly gave it up as a lost cause after she told them exactly what they could do with that idea. As her 'suggestion' sounded physically impossible, not to mention extremely painful, they decided not to press the issue.  
  
"Maybe we should stay behind and turn her loose on Jaggs," Cordell commented with a shiver. "Give her the right tool, and I think she could take him."  
  
"Her favorite is a large pipe wrench," Buddy told them. "Usually wrapped in a towel to 'minimize fatalities,' I think she said. And, did you notice? She didn't even raise her voice."  
  
By the time they had set up a radio in the RV, and tracking devices on each of the four 'doubles,' it was too late to start the first leg of their journey. Once again, they found themselves imposing on Walker's hospitality. As before, Gary opted for the sofa in the den, while Polly stretched out on a cot in the same room. The others were divvied up between the Ranger's three guestrooms and the sleeper in the living room. At one point, Cordell commented that he hadn't slept with so many under the same roof since the academy.  
  
As they sat together, waiting for night to fall, Clay dug a large cardboard box out of the back of the van. One by one, he laid out his mother's journals. Many of the covers were faded or water stained, the pages yellowed and frayed with age. Some were much newer. They covered the life of Virginia Metcalf Treyton from the age of fifteen, when she had first met the man who would become their father, to the time of her death at age fifty.  
  
"She named me Clayton Henry," Clay said, opening one of the books and handing it to Buddy. "She had an uncle named Henry, and a crush on the fella who played the Lone Ranger," he added with a wistful grin. "You were supposed to be Jeffrey Steven. After her dad and granddad. Momma . . . she, um, she never really gave up hope of findin' you, y' know. I think it made her a-a little . . . crazy, the not knowin', for sure, if you were alive or . . . It scared her that someone might do the same thing, take another one of her babies. She wouldn't let them keep the others in the nursery. Wouldn't let 'em out of her sight 'til they were safely home. She lived the rest of her life in hope, and fear."  
  
Buddy looked at the stack of thin, faded journals, his expressive face showing mixed emotions. He stroked the pages of the one he held, as if he could feel her touch through the patina left by the years.   
  
"Jeffery Steven," Buddy murmured thoughtfully. "Why 're you showin' these to me now?" he asked in hushed tones. "Why not earlier? H-how long 've you had 'em with you?"  
  
"Just picked 'em up from the storage locker yesterday," Clay replied with a shrug. "Right before we went to that museum. where Gary had that . . . attack, or whatever. I almost forgot about 'em. I thought we could have 'em copied. I'd keep half the originals, you'd keep the other half. We'd each have copies of the ones the other has. Don't ask me to repeat that, 'cause I barely got it straight this time. That way, we'd both have a full set. As for why now," he added in a more somber tone, "I don't know how this business is gonna end up. I felt you had a right to get to know her. Your real momma. Not the one that raised you, but the one that gave birth to you and grieved over your loss as if the heart had been cut outta her."  
  
Buddy didn't say anything more, at first, as he leafed through the book. "God," he finally murmured. "She was just a baby, herself, when she had us! Barely a week past sixteen. Y-you mind if I read a few of these tonight?" he asked. "Just the first couple or so."  
  
"Read all you want, brother," Clay told him. "When you're ready, we can talk over anything you like."  
  
"I'll hold you to that," Buddy murmured as he turned to the first page. "Don't plan on gettin' much sleep tonight."  
  
*************** 


	6. Darkness And Light

True to his word, Buddy kept Clay up most of the night, asking questions about their mother and some of the incidents mentioned in the journals. As a result, both twins slept most of the way to San Antonio while Jake drove. Gary and Polly sat and talked with Kwai Chang. The Shaolin tried to teach the younger man meditation techniques. In this way, he hoped to help Gary control the flood of images that threatened, at times, to overwhelm him.  
  
"Close your eyes," he told the man seated on the floor. "Relax, and let the air flow, in and out Slowly. Good. Keep your mind clear. Concentrate on the rhythm of your breathing, of the sound of your heart beating."  
  
Gary sat with his legs crossed in the classic 'lotus' position, arms resting loosely on his thighs. The soothing cadence of the priest's voice was making him drowsy in spite of the discomfort of his injuries. After a few minutes, his head began to nod as he started to slip from meditation and into sleep. A gentle touch on his shoulder snapped him out of it.  
  
"Oh, hell," he murmured, his voice still slurred with sleep. "Did it again, didn't I? I'm never gonna get the hang of this. Every time I relax, I fall asleep."  
  
"That is only because you have never learned to relax before," Kwai Chang told him. "If there were time, I would start with the most basic lessons. However, time is something in which we are of short supply. We have no drugs to help you achieve the proper level. You must reach it on your own."  
  
"I just don't think I can do this," Gary sighed. "I can't . . . focus that sharply. I'm either shutting everything out completely, or it hits me like an avalanche."  
  
"You've only been tryin' for a coupla hours, sugar," Polly reminded him. "Did you think it was gonna be easy?"  
  
"Think? No," Gary replied. "Hoped? Yes. Just once, I'd like for something to be simple. Cut and dried. Black and white. Pick your cliché. I know 'em all. How 'm I supposed to talk to Great Granddad if I can't get to that 'room,' or whatever? The last time I did this, I was already so close to death it was . . . I'd rather not wait 'til things get to that point this time."  
  
"No offense, guys, but I'm still having trouble getting a handle on this," Jake murmured from his place behind the wheel. "I can't even believe I'm having this conversation! Is this even the same situation? That Greco fella was still alive when he latched onto you. Chandler . . . great-great granddad, or whatever, is . . . well, I guess you could call him a free spirit. He's not attached to a dying body."  
  
"With my luck," Gary grumbled, "it just means it'll be harder to get him out of my head."  
  
At that moment, there was a crackling noise, followed by Walker's voice over the radio. "You guys okay? Over." The Ranger's truck was following them a little over a mile back. Not far behind them was the van carrying the sophisticated surveillance equipment needed to track the 'bugs' that had been planted on the four look-alikes.  
  
"Just dandy," Jake replied. "K. C.'s just teaching Gary a few tricks. How about you? Over."  
  
"No problems," the Ranger reported back. "You should be ready to turn left in a few minutes." He rattled off a county road number. "Stay alert," he added. "These guys love ambushes. Over."  
  
"Thanks," was Jake's laconic reply. "Ever a fount of wisdom, C. W. Over and out." He placed the mike back on the hook just as the their turnoff came into view. "Almost there, folks. Better go wake the twins."  
  
"I'll do it," Polly volunteered. She pushed herself up from her seat beside Gary with some effort and disappeared into the back of the vehicle. A moment later, she returned, saying that the twins would be out shortly. "They looked so cute, lyin' there together," she chuckled, "I hated to wake 'em up. They didn't go to bed 'til almost dawn."  
  
"They had a lot to talk over," Gary sighed, as he struggled up from his place on the floor. He slumped into the recliner with a muffled curse. He'd forgotten about his back. Again.   
  
"Keep it up," Polly warned him, "and you'll need more stitches."  
  
"I'll be careful," he sighed. "I've had more needlework over the last coupla years than one of Grandmother's quilts. Do you think we can make it back to Chicago without visiting every emergency room along the way?"  
  
"We might manage to miss one or two," Polly replied with a grin. "I wouldn't bet on all of 'em, though. Your luck just ain't that good, sweetie."  
  
*************  
  
David Taggart wiped at a film of dust coating the antique wooden chest before throwing back the lid.  
  
"Everything of your ancestor's that we could find is right here," he said. The history teacher pulled out two large bundles wrapped in oilskin. The first proved to be a long, leather greatcoat. The kind referred to in most 'dime novels' as a 'duster.' It had been cleaned and treated to keep the leather from drying out. With it was a tan colored Stetson with a band covered in dark colored beadwork. Both looked worn, but in excellent repair. "His horse and saddle were sold to pay for his burial," he added.  
  
The other bundle was a pair of leather saddlebags. They, too, had been treated to preserve them from the ravages of time and weather. The bags contained only a leather wallet with a few bills of paper currency and a letter inside, and half a dozen five dollar gold pieces.   
  
Gary took the letter off to one side, to read it, while the others continued to search for anything that would help in their quest.  
  
"No wonder he kept this," he murmured in awe. "It's a letter of commendation. Written and signed by President Abraham Lincoln, and dated the same day he was assassinated. This could be one of the last documents he ever wrote!"  
  
"Are you joshin' me?" Taggart exclaimed. "Let me see that." Gingerly, he took the fragile pages from Gary's hands. His own hands trembled as he quickly read over the age-yellowed paper. "My God!" he whispered. "If I'd known this was here, I'd 've had it authenticated and in a museum years ago. This is an incredible find!"  
  
"It says he helped to free his unit and several other prisoners," Gary murmured, "to escape from a prison camp. That he also uncovered a team of . . . not exactly spies. Instigators? They were stirring up trouble on both sides, trying to keep the war going as long as possible. According to this, our great-great granddad was a hero many times over. The value to the museums can't touch what this could mean to our families."  
  
"Still as an historical document," Taggart told him, "and one dated for the day a president died, you could start a bidding war that would knock your socks off."   
  
"These gold pieces could fetch a hefty price, too," Polly observed. "And this paper currency, as well. Every bit of it is dated from before, or during, the Civil War. Look. He even had a Confederate ten dollar bill in here. The man was a pack rat. I'd auction off some of this before I'd touch that letter. Aside from that picture you gave us, though, I don't see anything about his family."  
  
Buddy was still rooting around in the saddlebags while Jake and Clay were kidding around, trying on the hat and coat. Gary looked up from his perusal of the letter to see Clay decked out in their ancestor's attire, and his breath caught in his throat. For just a second, he was back in that room above the saloon, catching a glimpse of himself in a full length mirror as he tossed his things on the bed. Nervously, he cleared a lump from his throat as he quickly turned away.   
  
"W-would you mind putting that away?" he asked in a small voice, keeping his eyes averted. "Please?" He busied himself putting the letter back in its envelope, not wanting to see their reaction to his stammered request. He handed the document back to Taggart. "C-could you take care of this for us?" he asked the teacher. "Our situation is a little . . . iffy . . . right now. If you know anyone you can trust to authenticate it . . .?"  
  
"Once I put the word out," Taggart assured him, "every history museum in the country will be sending people they can trust. This treasure won't be out of my sight until it's under a glass display case. It's not the Constitution, mind you, or the Declaration of Independence, but it's got to be extremely rare. Perhaps one of a kind."  
  
"All the more reason to keep it somewhere it can be appreciated for what it is," Clay spoke up from behind them. He clapped a hand on Gary's left shoulder, careful to avoid the stitches that still ran across his back. "Sorry, Gary," the wrangler murmured. "Didn't mean to give you heart failure. We sorta . . . forgot."  
  
"S'okay," Gary sighed, his gaze still downcast. "I-I don't mean to be a wet blanket, guys. It . . . it just rattled me. A little. Um, M-Mr. Taggart, do you have something of Amanda Chandler's? A ring, letter, anything that might give us a clue about what happened to her?"  
  
"Not much, I'm afraid," was the teacher's sad reply. "Her children kept anything of any value. The only thing they refused to take was this packet of letters from their daddy." He dug out a thick stack of papers sealed in waxed parchment. "By the time Canfield found them, that woman, that so called 'friend' of Mrs. Chandler, had poisoned their minds against them so bad, they didn't even want to hear his name mentioned." He held the papers out to Gary.  
  
Wiping suddenly moist palms on his jeans, Gary reached for the packet, only to have Clay beat him to it. Instead of being offended, he felt relieved. He watched as the other man peeled back the top flap, breaking the watertight seal for the first time in how many years?  
  
"I never opened them, myself," Taggart explained. "My dad said that Canfield looked through them once, then sealed 'em this way. He figured that, someday, some of Chandler's kin would want to know the truth. Those are letters he wrote to his wife before they were married, and while he was away during the war."  
  
"Did he read all of them?" Jake asked, frowning at the idea of such personal items being handled by a stranger.   
  
Taggart shook his head. "Just a few lines of each one," he replied. "He wasn't interested in what Chandler had to say," the teacher explained. "He already knew what had happened to him. He was more interested in why she ran, and all of the letters were dated from before that time."  
  
Clay had pulled out the first letter, doing pretty much as the Marshal had done. Merely check the date and put it back. This he did a few more times, until he came to one dated for some time in 1863. The month and day were obscured by a dark stain.   
  
"Maybe he should've read a few of these," Clay murmured. "Listen. 'The man is the very soul of evil. Beware of him. He betrayed our unit and murdered Major Sheldon in his sleep. If I had been able to find him upon my escape, I would have ended his sorry existence with my bare hands. I can only take solace in having marred his features, of which he was so proud, with my saber. If only my strength had held a moment longer! The world would be a much better place without the likes of Captain John T. Marley. Again, I must warn you to be wary of this villain. Although the act of betrayal was his, he has sworn vengeance upon all I hold dear for his disfigurement.' Marley," Clay repeated. "You hollered out that name a time or two during your fever dream, Gary. But he wasn't part of the gang. How do you know that name?"  
  
"You don't wanna know," Gary mumbled as he groped blindly for someplace to sit. All the blood had drained from his face and his knees had gone weak. God! How many generations had that name been haunting his family? He finally sank onto an old crate, fighting to keep his breathing, and his nerves, under control. "Let's just say his genes ran true. Um, d-do you have any idea where Amanda Chandler might be buried? What cemetery would her friend 've used?"  
  
"No cemetery," Taggart replied with a shake of his head. "She was buried somewhere on her 'friend's' homestead. Only that woman, and maybe the children, knew where. I have some old maps that show where the spread was. We can use 'em to help narrow down your search. But, what can you learn from a hundred and thirty year old corpse?"  
  
"How she died, for one thing," Jake told him. "Maybe even who killed her, if it proves to be foul play. Forensics has come a long way since then."  
  
Kwai Chang had been standing off to one side, feeling that enough hands were sorting through the treasures of the past. His concern was only for the young man seated on the wooden crate, trying very hard to conceal his distress. The name 'Marley' had evidently stirred painful memories for his 'student.'  
  
"Perhaps you should rest, Gary," he suggested quietly. "You have yet to recover your full measure of strength."  
  
Taggart looked up from his search to eye the younger man more closely. "You do look a little pale, son," he observed. "Let's take these maps downstairs, and we can look at 'em there."  
  
"Sounds good," Gary nodded, grateful to get out of this place where the past kept intruding on the present. "I guess it wouldn't hurt me to lie down for a minute."  
  
A few minutes later, Gary was stretched out on the sofa while the others poured over the old survey maps Taggart had turned up. It didn't take them long to pinpoint where the forty-acre spread had been located. Gary tried to take an interest at this point, still feeling oddly tense. Expectant. He looked at the maps, listening as Taggart explained where the house and barn had been situated, the placement of the well, and the corrals where livestock was kept. He pointed out boundary markers that would probably still be in existence, and a few he knew that weren't. Still, he told them, traces might be found to indicate where they had been.  
  
"The only thing we know for sure," the teacher concluded, "is that Amanda Chandler is buried on this homestead. The bank took possession of it after the owner died without heirs. They tried to sell it several times, but no one would stay there for more than a month. That was about as long as they could stand it."  
  
"Stand what?" Gary murmured. He was finding it hard to concentrate for some reason. Rubbing his hands over his face and blinking several times, he tried to appear more alert than he felt.  
  
"The noises," Taggart explained in a conspiratorial whisper. "Horrible screeching noises. Every night about an hour or so before dawn. Lots of people tried, but no one has ever found the source of the sound. No holes in the rocks, nests of owls, or any other 'natural' cause for it. Some have come to believe," he added, "that it's the last utterance Amanda Chandler ever made. Her dyin' curse on the woman who murdered her and stole her children." He sat back with a grin. "At least, that's how local legend has it."  
  
Gary gave the teacher a rueful look. "You must've been loads of fun around the campfire," he grumbled. He rubbed briskly at the nape of his neck, trying to erase the tension he could feel building in his muscles. "S-so I take it this place is still empty?"  
  
"Most likely," Taggart shrugged. "It was ten years ago, which is the only time I set foot on the property. Everything's gone to ruin, though. You okay? You're lookin' about as bad as you did upstairs."  
  
"J-just a headache," Gary sighed, pushing himself up from the table. "I've got something for it out in the RV."  
  
"Let me get it," Polly said, starting to rise. "You shouldn't . . ."  
  
"I have that . . . tracker thingie," he reminded her. "We all do. Peter and the others are right outside. I couldn't be safer. B-besides, maybe some fresh air will help me clear my head. I'll only be a minute."  
  
With obvious reluctance, Polly sat back down. "All right," she murmured. "Just stay alert. We've gone through too much to chance losing you now."  
  
"Thank you," Gary sighed. "Y-you guys go ahead with . . . with whatever . . . and I'll be right back. Okay?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Gary turned and almost ran from the oppressive atmosphere of the house. He decided he would have to ask David Taggart about the history of this homestead someday. Was he tuning in on even more restless spirits? Or was it Gary Chandler's ghost goading him into action? Whatever, it was giving him a killer headache.  
  
Gary stepped out into the mid-afternoon sunlight with a relieved sigh. Already, he could feel the pain starting to ease. Stepping up to the huge vehicle, he was reaching for the door handle when he heard a faint noise directly behind him. Angry, thinking that one of the others had followed him 'for his own good,' he started to turn around, a cutting remark ready for his intruder.   
  
Blinding pain shot through his already throbbing head as something struck him just behind the right ear. Stunned, Gary felt beefy arms catch him as his knees buckled, dragging him away from the RV. Dimly, he heard voices crying out his name, sounds of a struggle. A wet cloth was pressed over his mouth and nose. He tried to hold his breath, keep out the pungent fumes, but it was too late. His senses were already growing numb as he was thrown onto the floorboards of another vehicle. Struggling to stay alert, Gary tried to raise his head only to let it fall back as the strength ebbed from his body. The last thing he heard was the screech of tires as his abductors sped from the scene, and a deep, gravely voice close to his ear.   
  
"I told you, Treyton," the voice said with a throaty chuckle. "No one crosses me."  
  
**************  
  
"How could this happen?" Clay shouted at the three men. "I thought you were watching us!"  
  
"What was he doing out here alone?" Peter countered. "You guys were supposed to stick together!"  
  
"Cut it out!" Polly snapped. "Gary came out here alone by his choice! He . . . he wasn't feeling well and wanted some air. I-I think he was suffocating in there. He was tryin' to hide it, but . . . I think he felt . . . trapped. Look, we can stand here and argue blame all day, or we can get him back. Make up your minds quick, 'cause the longer we stand here, the farther they get."   
  
Polly looked over to where Jake and Buddy were talking with one of the techs monitoring their tracking devices. The officer was shaking his head, his face grim. Not what she wanted to see. Neither was the look on Jake's face as he and Buddy rejoined them.  
  
"They're already out of range," Jake told her. "The last signal had them going north on State Road 83. This isn't good, people. I mean, h-how long does it take to . . . to kill a man?"  
  
"If it's Jaggs," Clay told him dismally, "it depends on his mood. If he's feelin' 'charitable,' it could already be too late."  
  
"If not?" Polly asked, figuring that someone had to. The fearful, pitying look Clay gave her said more than she wanted to hear.  
  
She turned to where the local police were struggling to put a shackled Hicks into the back of a squad car. They weren't having much success. It had taken both Walker and Sammo to subdue the escaped con, while Peter tried to get close enough to retrieve Gary. The younger Shaolin had been just half a second too slow, grabbing Sykes by the hair just as the felon threw a weakly struggling Gary into the back of a late model van. The escaped con had then spun around to do battle as the vehicle took off with an ear-shattering shriek of peeling rubber. The fight that had ensued was more than enough to give the kidnappers their chance to escape, with Sykes winding up in a heap on the ground, unconscious.  
  
Angrily, the tech strode up and grabbed Hicks by his earlobe, earring and all, giving it a vicious twist. With a howl of agony, the big man sank to his knees.  
  
"You are gonna tell me where they're takin' my friend," she hissed, "or you 'n' I are gonna take a little trip to the vet. You'll be the darlin' o' the cell block when I get through with you!"  
  
********  
  
Gary jerked awake with a strangled curse, snorting and coughing to clear the icy water from his breathing passages. Blinking rapidly, he looked up to see the blurred image of a lean, narrow faced man standing over him, an empty bucket hanging from one hand.  
  
"Time to wake up, Treyton," the sepulchral voice commanded. "We got a long day ahead of us."  
  
"N-not T-Treyton," Gary told him through chattering teeth. Struggling to sit up, he found that his arms were bound behind his back, and that he was bare to the waist. "N-name's H-Hobson. G-Gary H-Hobson. Wh-who . . .?"  
  
"Nice try," the lean-faced man chuckled grimly. He tossed the bucket aside as he knelt next to his prisoner. "You seriously think that I believed all that 'double/triple' sh-- you tried to pull on those two idiots? I don't know how you managed it, or why, and I don't really care. The only thing keepin' you alive right now, is somethin' they overheard you and that schoolteacher talkin' about. Some hidden treasure up around Lubbock." He pulled a wicked looking stiletto from his boot, using it to trace a scar on Gary's right shoulder. "Impressive collection you have," he murmured. "Is that a bullet wound?"  
  
"J-jealous b-boyfriend," Gary stammered, unable to suppress a shudder of revulsion at the almost seductive tone in the other man's voice. "L-look, you have . . . have the wrong guy. I-I've never seen you before in my life. Honest!" As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Gary was able to make out where he was. He seemed to be on the dirt floor of a barn, or a shed. "A-and I don't know anything a-about any t-treasure, either."  
  
A stinging backhand rocked his head back, knocking him off the precarious support of his right elbow and onto his back. He sucked his breath in with a hiss as he felt one or two of the sutures give. He also tasted blood from a cut on the inside of his cheek.  
  
"Don't f--- with me, Treyton!" the other man roared. "Sykes was right outside the attic door while you and your friends were rooting through that trash, looking for clues! He couldn't hear everything, but he clearly heard the word 'treasure' several times. Fool had enough brains to tell me about it before he killed you right there. As I said, that's the only reason I haven't ripped your head off and used it for a hood ornament!"  
  
Gary quickly decided this guy wasn't playing with a full deck. It might be better to play along for a while, stall for time. A chill shivered its way up his spine as he realized who he was dealing with. "Okay . . . Jaggs," he murmured around his rapidly swelling lip. "You've got me. Now what? If you kill me, you'll never find it."  
  
His enraged visage relaxing into a malicious grin, Jaggs stroked the tip of the blade along the angle of Gary's jaw. He chuckled evilly as the younger man shivered in fear, or revulsion.  
  
"I don't have to kill you," he whispered. "Yet." Jaggs moved the knife blade up, pressing the point into the skin below Gary's right eye until a bead of blood welled up to cover the tip. "Before I'm through, you'll be begging for it, Treyton. On your knees and crying, pleading for me to end your pitiful existence. Now, tell me where it is."  
  
"I don't even know where we are, right now," Gary murmured, being very careful not to move any more than he had to. "You may not've noticed, but I was unconscious when you brought me here."  
  
His grin broadening into a reptilian smile, Jaggs sat back on his heels. More importantly, he withdrew the knife. "See? Now, you're thinking!" he said. "Once you know where you are, you'll lead us to the treasure, and we'll let you go. Simple." He started to put the stiletto away, then noticed the bead of blood staining the tip. Bringing the blade up to his mouth, he closed his eyes and licked it off with a low, rumbling moan, as if savoring the salty, metallic taste.  
  
"You really expect me to believe that?" Gary snorted, trying to play it as he thought Clay would. Inside, he was trying not to scream in fear and revulsion. "The minute you have what you want, my only value is as a hostage. Just how far will that get me? As far as the border? No thank you. You want that treasure, I'll take you to it, but only to a point. After that, you turn me loose, and I tell you where to look. The rest is up to you."  
  
The cold, venomous look Jaggs gave him made Gary worry that he had already pushed the felon too far. "You might want to think that over, boy," he growled. "Think about what happened the last time you held out on me. And Weston isn't here to save your a-- this time." He rose to his feet with a sinuous grace that reminded Gary of a cobra, raising its head from a snake charmer's basket. "I'll give you a little time alone," Jaggs snarled, "then we'll 'talk' some more. Until then, here's a little something to think about."   
  
Gary barely had time to register the words before a booted foot impacted with his lower ribs. It was quickly followed by another to his right kidney as he tried to roll away from the attack. A third blow grazed his temple, sending his senses reeling, before Jaggs was satisfied that his 'message' had been delivered. He smiled as he strode away, leaving Gary to deal with his pain.  
  
Stifling a groan, Gary rolled onto his left side, praying that no more ribs were broken, but almost certain he'd felt one crack. "God," he murmured, "I hope Dr. Griner can clear his schedule. If I get out of this alive, I'm gonna need a lot of therapy."  
  
****************  
  
"They're not talking," Walker sighed, frustrated. "They know that, no matter what, it's back to prison. We've got nothing to bargain with."  
  
"So don't bargain," Peter grumbled. "Scare it out of 'em."  
  
"How?" the Ranger asked. "You heard me. I threatened those apes with everything short of slow torture. They're more afraid of Jaggs Neff than they are of dying."  
  
"Well, we better come up with something," the young Shaolin sighed. "It's been almost twelve hours. They could've crossed the border last night."  
  
"But they haven't," Walker assured him. "Border Patrol was alerted minutes after it happened, and Alex is on the phone with the Mexican authorities right now. Besides, they were heading north, not south. And that van wasn't made for backcountry. No, they've gone to ground somewhere, and I really don't want to think about what they could be doing."  
  
Peter's face grew very thoughtful as he recalled the scene at the house. "Why did they grab him?" he asked. "Why not kill Gary right there and run for it?"  
  
"I can think of one reason," the Ranger shuddered. "You ever been in a POW camp?"  
  
*************  
  
Gary had finally settled into a fitful doze when Jaggs returned. He awakened the younger man with a kick to the hip, then another.   
  
"Time to talk, Treyton," he growled. Stepping back, the crime boss motioned to two men behind him.   
  
They strode forward and, grabbing him roughly by the arms, yanked Gary to his feet. He was then half dragged, half carried into a larger space. It appeared to be the open bay of an old barn. Through a missing board in one wall, he could see the sun touching the horizon. Rising or setting, Gary wondered? How long had he been out?  
  
Gary was marched to the center of the cavernous space, where a rusty chain dangled from a crossbeam. At the end was a wicked looking hook. Images flashed through Gary's mind. The dark, torch lit mineshaft. A smooth, silken voice urging him to talk, to spare himself . . . Gary kicked out at one of the men, trying to fight free of their hold! No way was he going to let . . !  
  
Pain blinded him as he felt the sutures in his back give, felt the fluid warmth as blood oozed down his back. Jaggs, or someone, had slammed him across his shoulders, reopening his wound. By the time Gary could focus again, his wrists had been untied and fastened to the chain by a pair of handcuffs. This left his arms stretched painfully above his head . . . just like in his dream.  
  
"You ready to tell me where it is?" Jaggs asked as he stepped around to face his victim.  
  
"You'll kill me if I do," Gary grated out through the pain.   
  
"I'll kill you either way," Jaggs told him calmly, running a narrow length of rusty chain through his hands. "It's just a question of when . . . and how long it'll take."  
  
'Oh, God,' Gary prayed. 'Why haven't they found us, yet? Did I get a dead 'bug'?'  
  
"Now," Jaggs continued, slapping the chain suggestively against his left palm, "we know it's on some old homestead around Lubbock. I need you to tell me which one, and exactly where it's hidden. And what it is. Are we talking bullion, here? Or gold coins? What?"  
  
"Go to hell," Gary hissed.   
  
The look that crossed the killer's face sent a chill down Gary's spine, making his skin crawl.   
  
"Wrong answer."  
  
**************  
  
"You shouldn't 've pulled me off that goon," Polly grumbled. "Five more seconds and he woulda talked."  
  
"Five more seconds," Clay told her, "and he wouldn't 've been able to talk. Polly, you almost tore that guy's ear off!"  
  
They were walking down the corridor toward the interrogation room in the local police station. Sammo Law was leading them to where the others waited. "They tell me," he said, "that his earring was deeply imbedded into his earlobe. It took a long time to find all of the pieces. This man fears you, Miss Gannon. Perhaps as much as he fears his boss."  
  
"Let me have him for five minutes," Polly promised grimly, "and we'll see. Gary's still alive. I can feel it! These bozos know where Jaggs is headed, and why he hasn't killed him, yet. They . . ." She broke off her grumbling tirade, stumbling against the wall.   
  
Clay caught her by the elbow, steadying her as she regained her balance. "Are you okay?" he asked, concerned by her shocked look.  
  
"They've hurt him," she whispered. Her jaw clenched in determination and anger. "Those sons of b-----s are hurting him!"   
  
"You know this?" Sammo marveled. "You can feel his pain?"  
  
"Oh, yes," Polly hissed, wincing as she rubbed a hand on her back. "Thing is, what I'm feeling is only a shadow of what he's feeling." She directed a heated gaze toward the door of the interrogation room. "C'mon, guys. I feel like sharing the experience."  
  
Shaking her arm loose from Clay's grasp, Polly stalked into the middle of Walker's latest attempt to gain information from the two hoods. He broke off his question in mid-sentence, moving to cut her off.  
  
"Polly," he warned her, "now isn't the time."  
  
"Time is running out," she hissed, her eyes flashing in anger. "They're torturing Gary, and I want to know why. Give me five minutes. Just five. Please!"  
  
The moment she had entered the room, Hicks had leapt back from the table, knocking his chair over as one hand covered his bandaged left ear. The look of fear on his face decided the Ranger's course of action. Stepping back, he waved her in.   
  
"Go for it," he shrugged.  
  
Biting her lip to keep from wincing with each shock of pain, Polly strode up to the table. Looking past Sykes as if he didn't exist, she fixed a fiery glare on the man backed into the corner.  
  
"Sit down," she commanded through clenched teeth. "Now."  
  
"You keep her away from me!" the convict demanded. "I know my rights! You can't let her . . ."  
  
"Let her what?" Walker asked, feigning innocence. "She just wants to ask you a few questions."  
  
"Sh-she wants to . . . Did you hear her?" Hicks was keeping a watchful eye on the irate woman. "She's was gonna rip my . . ."  
  
"With my bare hands," Polly growled. "Sit . . . down . . . now." She met his fearful look with one that would have melted glaciers.   
  
Hicks finally gave in and resumed his seat at the table. His friend Sykes shot him a disdainful look. "Wuss," he snickered.  
  
"Shut up!" Polly snapped. "I'll get to you in a minute." She fixed her hottest glare on Hicks. "You are going to tell me where your boss is taking my friend," she told him, gritting her teeth from the pain. "Then you're going to tell me why." She then looked at Sykes. "And, if you open you mouth before I tell you, it better be to fill in the blanks. Otherwise, I will rip your lungs out through your nostrils and feed them to you. Are we clear on that?"  
  
"You stupid b----," Sykes sneered, rocking his chair on its back legs. "Why should I . . ."  
  
Polly shoved hard on one end of the narrow table, knocking it into the big man and causing him to lose his balance. Before he could untangle himself, she had grabbed his foot and yanked him to her side of the table. A half second later, she had her fingers deeply intertwined in his thick beard, and her knee on his chest.  
  
"It hurts a lot less to shave," she hissed. "Open your mouth again, and it comes off the hard way. I repeat: Are we clear on that?"  
  
"Y-yes, ma'am," he stammered. "Wh-whatever you say, ma'am." Sykes was a believer.   
  
The four men standing near the door shivered in unison. Walker, glanced up at Peter, a pained look on his face as he rubbed at his own beard. "And you really think she needs lessons?"  
  
**********  
  
Gary was never sure, afterwards, how many times Jaggs struck him with the chain before he lost consciousness. He was too busy, at the time, trying to remain calm, to buy as much time as he could for the others to pick up the signal from his tracer. He knew that he would not be able to hold out much longer.   
  
"Tell him."  
  
"Wh-what?" Dazed, Gary opened his eyes and looked around in puzzled amazement. He was no longer in the dimly lit barn. He was in a well lighted . . . parlor was the only word he could come up with to describe it. It was decorated in something like a Victorian style.   
  
"Tell him where to find what he wants."  
  
Gary looked up from his place on the floor to see another version of himself standing by the window. He was dressed in a Civil War uniform of Union blue, but wore no hat to hide the slightly longish hair.  
  
"C-Captain Chandler?" Gary murmured respectfully. "A-are you really my great-great grandfather?  
  
The figure smiled and stepped forward, helping Gary to his feet and guiding him to the sofa.   
  
"I am," he admitted. "And you have no idea how delighted I was when you first set foot on that hill. You were the answer to a very old prayer."  
  
"Wh-what sorta prayer?" Gary asked hesitantly. He rolled his shoulders experimentally. As before, the damage was only to his physical body. "A-are you the reason so many of us look alike? Like a . . . a password or something?"  
  
"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into this. It was not my intent to bring harm to you or the others. My only desire was to reunite my family."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. "And I can sympathize. But . . . why me? Why latch onto my . . . psyche, or whatever? Why not Clay when he lived right there for years?"  
  
Captain Chandler looked away, shaking his head sadly. "He was never open to me," he explained. "He carried his own anger and bitterness like a shield. None of the others could feel me, either. In over one hundred years, you were the first to see through my eyes. To feel my sorrow, and my pain. You are uniquely gifted for such a task. Why do you resent it so much?"  
  
"Because I'm afraid," Gary admitted truthfully. "This is all so new to me! First my whole life gets turned upside down, then I start getting tomorrows newspaper today, then . . . then, just when I'm getting used to that . . . I died. Several times. N-now I s-seem to have this . . . link with the dead o-or dying. The last guy . . . he took over for . . . for a few seconds. Just shoved me right out of my own . . . Wh-what if the next one decides to . . . to stay? T-to take over for good? I-I guess what I'm most afraid of losing is . . .is me."  
  
"That's not going to happen, Gary," Captain Chandler assured him. "Not with me. Once Amanda, your great-great grandmother, and I are reunited, we'll both be gone from this plane of existence. We are both long past our time for moving on."  
  
Leaning his elbows on his knees, Gary cupped both hands over his nose and mouth, giving vent to a great sigh of weariness. "So, what do I do now?" he asked.  
  
"You take them to the place where Amanda is buried," Chandler told his descendant. "Once united, we can reach into the living world, through you, and protect you . . . for a time."  
  
Gary turned his head to give the other man a questioning glance. "For a time?" he asked. "You two have hung in there for a hundred and thirty years. Then, when you can actually help me, when I can finally learn something . . . you have to run off? What's the rush?"  
  
"What ties us to this world," the officer sighed, "is the pain we can not leave behind. Through you, I have learned that my children lived to have families of their own. I can only pray that their lives were full and, ultimately, happy. My wife is in torment because she has no such knowledge. And I still don't know what drove her to run as she did. Once all our questions are answered, all our tasks are done, we'll have only a brief time before we must cross beyond the veil. God willing, it will be time enough to see you out of harm's way."  
  
"If it isn't?" Gary asked.  
  
Captain Chandler averted his troubled gaze. "That is all I can say, for now."  
  
**********  
  
Gary couldn't stifle a sharp cry of pain as the icy water was dashed onto his raw, bleeding flesh. It stung horribly as it drizzled down his body, seeping into every gash or abrasion left by the rusty chain. There were a lot of them.  
  
"Time to wake up, boy," Jaggs said with a throaty chuckle. "Are you ready to tell me where it is?"  
  
"C-can't t-tell you," Gary stammered weakly. He choked back another cry as Jaggs slammed the chain across his ribs. "I have to show you!" he grated out between clenched teeth. "God! Let a man finish, would you? I have to . . . to see the landmarks. A lot of things have change since those maps I saw were . . . were drawn. Roads. Rivers and s-streams 've been dammed up or changed course. There are . . . are other things . . . th-they don't change, b-but you won't find 'em on a road map."  
  
The escaped killer paced back and forth behind Gary, out of his line of sight. It made Gary nervous, not being able to see his face, gauge his reaction. The prisoner could hear the crunch of his captor's footsteps, the clink of the rusty chain as he slapped it idly against his palm. This went on for several eternities as Jaggs considered his words.   
  
Gary bit back a cry as fire erupted across his back. Jaggs had dragged something, a fingernail, most likely, along one of the wounds inflicted by the chain.  
  
"You'd recognize these . . . landmarks?" the killer asked as he stepped around to the front. He was running the length of chain through his hands, leaving behind stains that were not rust.  
  
Gary had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could stammer out a hesitant, "Y-yes."  
  
Jaggs nodded at his two nameless henchmen and stepped back. They unlocked the cuffs, letting him drop to the dirt floor with no attempt to stop his fall. Gary lay there a moment, biting his lower lip to keep from crying out as the circulation returned to arms that felt useless. Dead. Before the pins and needles effect completely faded, his arms were pulled roughly behind his back and the cuffs fastened tightly about his wrists. He was then tossed back into the room where he had first awakened.   
  
"I'm gonna bring you a map," Jaggs told him. "You show me where this place is, and we'll be there by morning." He stared at Gary a moment longer with his cold, reptilian eyes. "Don't f--- with me on this, Treyton. If I find out this is just a stall for time, I'll make you think today was nothing more than a child's tea party."  
  
***********  
  
It was late that evening when they dragged Gary from the barn and threw him onto the back floorboard of an old Ford sedan. A rag was shoved into his mouth and fastened in place with duct tape. He grunted in pain as a rough blanket was thrown over him, rasping against the mass of raw flesh Jaggs had made of his back. In this position, he was unable to see any identifying landmarks. For the thousandth time, he wondered why the tracer had not led the police straight to them hours ago. Had they gotten out of range too fast? He remembered being told that it was only readable at twenty miles. But surely, by this time, someone could have picked it up again!  
  
In spite of the pain of his injuries, and the discomfort of his position, Gary drifted off to sleep after a while. For once, his dreams were his own. Perhaps, in compensation for the hell his body was going through, his mind sought a more restful state. For a brief time, he was back home in Chicago, doing nothing more strenuous than dealing with the day-to-day business of running the bar. The Paper had few 'errands' that needed his attention, and he could spend the afternoon looking at houses with his parents. He was even able to have an enjoyable evening with Brigatti, after which they parted without once exchanging an angry word. It was at this point that he realized it was only a dream. He and the fiery Italian couldn't stay five minutes in the same room without sparks flying!  
  
The big sedan rocked to a halt. A moment later, he heard the car doors open and the blanket was snatched away, taking a lot of dried blood with it. If not for the gag, Gary would have been pleased to blister the air with language he had never heard in church, as fire raged across his unprotected back!  
  
Rough hands dragged him from the car and held him upright as he tried to regain his balance. When he nodded that he could stand on his own, Jaggs grabbed a corner of the tape and yanked it off, along with part of Gary's five o'clock shadow. Again, the gag muffled his response. Mother would be so proud.   
  
Jaggs grabbed Gary's chin with bruising force, prying his mouth open to pull out the gag. He then gave the younger man a hard shove, almost knocking him off his feet. Gary staggered a few steps before regaining his balance. He stood there for a moment, shivering as the frigid, pre-dawn air tormented his ravaged flesh.   
  
"Anything look familiar?"   
  
Gary shot a baleful look back at his captors. A look that was wasted in the darkness. "How do you expect me to find anything in this light?" he grumbled hoarsely. "W-we have to wait. At least until sunrise."  
  
Jaggs mulled this over in his mind, trying to find some hint of subterfuge on Gary's part. He had to admit that landmarks would be hard to pick out in the dark. Pulling a gun from his pocket, he waved the muzzle at Gary, indicating that he should lead the way to a ramshackle building that may once have been a house. "It's too cold to just be standing around out here," he said. "We can wait inside."  
  
Gary looked at the hulking shadow of the old house and shivered even more. Something about the thick shadows, the air of . . . decay . . . of death, unnerved him.  
  
"I-I think I'd prefer to wait out here," he stammered.  
  
"What's the matter, Treyton," one of the goons chuckled. It was the first time Gary had heard either of them speak. "Afraid of the dark?"  
  
Gary refused to rise to the bait. Turning his back on the looming structure with a shudder, he started to go back to the car. He had not taken two steps before a rough hand grasped him by the upper arm and spun him around.  
  
"Where do you think you're going?" Jaggs growled.  
  
"B-back to the car," Gary stammered. "I-it'll be warmer."  
  
"I'm not that cold," the killer sneered. "And I'm tired of sitting. Get in the house."  
  
"That's easy for you to say," Gary grumbled irritably, jerking loose from the other man's hold. "You have all your clothes on." Louder, he said, "I don't think it's safe. These old houses a-are full of . . . of rotting boards and such. I-I can't lead you anywhere on a broken leg."  
  
Something slammed across his back, eliciting a strangled curse as fire erupted across his tattered flesh. The pain knocked Gary to his knees, stealing his breath and bringing tears to his eyes. He knelt there on the frozen ground, trying to get his lungs to work again.   
  
Jaggs bent down and grabbed a handful of hair, yanking back so hard on Gary's head that he could almost hear his neck snap.  
  
"You'll crawl on your belly, if I tell you to," he hissed into the young man's ear. "Now, get on your feet, and into that house."  
  
Dragging Gary to his feet by his hair, Jaggs flung him onto the rickety porch like a rag doll. Stumbling, Gary managed to keep from falling flat on his face only by slamming his shoulder into the wall and sliding to one knee, a maneuver that was almost as bad as what he had just endured. He knelt there, trying to get his breath back . . . again, as Jaggs and his cohorts strode onto the rotting boards. They grabbed his arms and hauled the hapless man to his feet, leading him to the opening where a door hung by one rotting wooden hinge.   
  
They practically threw Gary into the two-story derelict, bouncing him painfully off of an ancient stone fireplace. Dazed, he tried to struggle to his feet, only to fall back with a cry when pain shot through his right shoulder. It felt as if it had popped out of it's socket! He almost passed out when the larger of the two thugs, grabbed him by the injured arm and hauled him to a seated position, his back against the rough boards of the wall.  
  
Gary later blamed it on the pain that clouded his mind, that blurred the line between what was real . . . and what was not. The others didn't seem to hear it, that low moaning wail. It was coming from a great distance, at first. Then it seemed to be coming closer. Closer. Rising in pitch with every cycle, until it rang in his mind like the shrill cry of a banshee! He tried to ignore it, at first, then to shut it out, putting his head between his knees in a vain effort to cover his ears. 'God!' he prayed, 'make it stop! Please make it stop!'  
  
Finally he could take it no more! With a choked cry, he gathered his legs beneath him and launched himself toward the door, only to be blocked by one of the thugs before he could clear the opening! Ignoring his injuries, too wired to even feel the pain, he writhed in the man's grip, kicking out wildly at the other one when he jumped in. It wasn't until Jaggs stepped up and grabbed his hair once more that they were able to subdue him.  
  
"Let me out of here!" Gary grated out from between clenched teeth. "I've got to get out!"  
  
"Feeling a little claustrophobic, Treyton?" Jaggs chuckled. "A little . . . trapped?"  
  
"There's something in here!" Gary hissed. "S-something . . . evil!"  
  
"You got that right," Jaggs sneered. "Me." He looked around, spying a door that seemed more solid than the half-rotted hunk of boards which was all that was left of the front. Letting go of Gary's hair, he stepped over and forced it open. Unlike the front door, this one was hung on rusty metal hinges that gave out a spine-chilling screech as he pushed it open. Looking inside, the killer noted that it was a small room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet, with one boarded up window. "Perfect," he chuckled. "Let's give our guest a little privacy," he told his men. "Throw him in."  
  
The dark opening beckoned at Gary, freezing the very marrow of his bones. He tried to struggle free, only to scream out as someone slapped a hand on his ravaged flesh! Kicking out, he tried to brace his foot against the doorframe. Jaggs slapped it down. Realistically, Gary knew that either man, alone, could break him in half. It was only desperation and panic that allowed him to slow their advance as much as he did.   
  
The instant Gary's foot touched the threshold, there was an ear-shattering shriek as something flew by his head! Sharp talons raked his shoulder as the biggest owl he'd ever seen, circled back, beating at his head with powerful wings! It startled the two goons into loosening their hold on his arms. Gary was quick to take advantage of this lapse. Ducking to evade the owl, he spun on one heel, ramming his shoulder into Jaggs as he dove through the front door and off the porch. By some miracle, he kept his feet and, dodging the shrieking owl, ran as fast as he could away from that forbidding structure! Ignoring the angry cries behind him, Gary leapt over the remains of the corral fence and ducked around the corner of the barn just as the first shot rang out. Wood splinters stung his face and shoulder as he scrambled for cover!  
  
It was reckless, running all out in the dark as he was, especially in unknown terrain. Still the shouting voices behind him was all the encouragement Gary needed to keep going. When he figured he that had a big enough lead, and that damned owl had given up, Gary started looking around for someplace to hide. Chest heaving, he leaned his shoulder against the rough bark of a tree as he tried to get his bearings. The rashness of his flight sank in as he realized that he now had no clue as to where he was!   
  
**********  
  
"Can't these crates move any faster?" Polly grumbled irritably. "Gary could be dead by the time we get there!"  
  
"We won't get there at all if we wreck," Walker reasoned. "Just calm down, Miss Gannon. We'll be at the turn off in just a few more minutes."  
  
"If you'd 've let me castrate that fella," she growled, " the other one woulda talked faster."  
  
"Or been too hysterical to make sense," the ranger argued. "Where did you learn to talk like that? Not in parochial school, that's for sure!"  
  
"I have a checkered past," Polly snapped. She winced as another spasm of pain ripped across her back. "I swear to God, I'm gonna rip that SOB a new one!"  
  
Walker didn't have to ask who was going to get a 'new' what.  
  
************  
  
Gary practically held his breath as he waited for his pursuers to work their way past his hiding place. Jaggs and company had been 'beating the bushes' around him, literally, for the last few minutes. At times, they had been close enough for him to hear their muttered curses.   
  
"He must've taken that other trail," Jaggs growled. "Dugan, go back to the car and see if there's a flashlight. Rogers, you come with me. When we find that piece o' sh-- I'm gonna rip the rest o' his hide off and use it to wipe him off my shoes. Then I'm gonna kill 'im. Slowly."  
  
Gary waited patiently for their footsteps to fade back the way they had come. Then he waited some more before finally taking in a deep breath and letting it out with a 'whoosh!' of relief. Each minute he remained free was another minute he stayed alive.  
  
"Great-great granddad," he murmured, "if you're still there, I could sure use some of that help you promised right about now."  
  
Nothing. He must not be close enough to Amanda's grave, yet. Gary decided he had to find better concealment before the sun rose. If they came back and found him out in the open, he was dead meat. Moving slowly, he tried to worm his way out of the underbrush with a minimum of blood loss. Not an easy task with his hands still cuffed behind his back. He had tried to work his arms over his buttocks and legs, only to give it up when the pain almost caused him to black out. It didn't help matters that, every time poked his head out, that damned owl came swooping around, trying to take it off! If Gary's pursuers ever figured out what the hellish bird was screeching at, it would lead them straight to him! For some strange reason, Gary just did not see that as being in his best interest.  
  
Panting heavily, Gary finally extricated himself from the clump of bushes. And the owl seemed to be gone. "Thank you, God," he murmured, "for small favors." Panting from pain and exertion, Gary looked out at the glow on the distant horizon. The sun would be up in just a few more minutes. Once visibility improved, his chances for survival would plummet! Still, it gave him a sense of direction, which made him feel a little less . . . lost.   
  
Struggling to his feet, Gary turned until he was facing roughly north. That was the direction of the old riverbed. He had no idea why he would want to go there, just that something compelled him to do so. At least he could now see most of the little obstacles and pitfalls that had tripped him up on his earlier flight. It also meant that he could be seen, as well.  
  
Moving as quickly as his weakened frame would allow, Gary stumbled and ran for his mysterious goal. By the time the sun had cleared the horizon, he could see one of the landmarks Taggart had said marked the boundary of the homestead. An up-thrust finger of rock with a spiral pictograph near the top. Two huge oak trees grew to either side of it. Between him and the rock was over fifty yards of open space. Not good. Still he felt drawn to this place. Could he be close to his goal? Could this be where Amanda, the beloved wife of Gary Chandler, the woman who had given birth to the children who had ultimately led to his own existence, had lain for almost a century and a half? Hesitantly, Gary left the copse of trees that had shielded him thus far, and began what he felt might be the most perilous part of his escape.  
  
He had barely covered a third of the distance when Gary heard angry shouts behind him. Risking a backwards glance, he saw Jaggs and his thugs emerge from the tree line. Panicked, he put everything he had into racing for that rock.   
  
He was never sure when it started. Gary was too busy trying to stay alive to even care when the wind picked up. Jaggs was screaming insane curses at him, firing one shot after another at his unprotected back! Then Gary noticed that the air was filling with dust and debris. It whirled around him in a rising 'dust devil' that began to push him even faster toward his goal! Too fast! He was barely able to stop in time to keep from plunging over the edge of the bluff. Teetering on the edge of the steep drop-off, Gary looked down at the dried riverbed more than thirty feet below! And the wind was getting stronger!   
  
Looking back, he could barely make out the three felons who had hounded him this far. They were being unmercifully bombarded by windswept projectiles of every description! Jaggs was already bleeding in several places, although he was still hanging on to that gun. Shielding his face with one arm, he leveled the weapon at his hapless victim.  
  
Gary could see nowhere else to run! Closing his eyes, he awaited the impact that would end his life. He wanted to pray, but he couldn't think of what to pray for. He knew he was dead, that there was nowhere for him to duck, or hide. It never even occurred to him to pray for a miracle. The only thing on his mind . . . was failure. He had not brought the restless spirits of his ancestors together so that they could find release. He had failed to trap the man who might, ultimately, realize his mistake, and manage to murder Clay somehow. Just as bad, who would take care of the Paper, now? Lindsay was much too young! As he heard the muffled report of the gun, all he could think to say was: "God, please forgive me!"  
  
The rocky bank under his foot crumbled a split second before he felt a burning sensation on the right side of his neck. Before he even had a chance to cry out, Gary plummeted over the edge of the bluff! The last thing he heard was a barrage of gunfire and a woman's voice screaming.  
  
"NO!"  
  
*********  
  
"Kill that son of a b----!" Jaggs growled at his two cohorts as they caught sight of their prey. "I want his head on my trophy wall."   
  
The three men closed in on the lone, injured man, firing wildly into the blinding whirlwind. Jaggs chuckled to see the man he still thought of as Treyton looking frantically for an avenue of escape. The killer slowed his advance, ignoring the rising wind, as he closed in on his victim. Slowly, he raised his pistol, taking careful aim at the man who now stood facing him. 'Treyton' just stood there, breathing hard, a look of resignation on his tired features. No, not tired. Exhausted. The man was quite literally on his last legs.  
  
"Time to end this game," Jaggs muttered, then gently squeezed the trigger. As if in slow motion, he saw 'Treyton' close his eyes, his mouth moving in a silent prayer.  
  
He never had the satisfaction of seeing the bullet hit because, at that moment, a truck burst through the underbrush, almost running him over! Spinning around, he ran for the nearest cover, only to come face-to-face with the man he had just shot! Startled, he squeezed off another round, not taking time to aim. The other man ducked instinctively, but kept coming. Shaken, Jaggs spun on one heel and tried to go back the way he'd come. He spat a vicious curse as he was confronted by yet another 'Treyton' clone! What the hell was going on here?  
  
Jaggs raised the gun once more, taking steady aim through the rising wind. Determined to kill the man before him. Something struck him hard on his left side, knocking his arm up and spoiling his aim! Furious, Jaggs squirmed in the grip of his captor . . . He froze as he found himself nose-to-nose with a third 'clone!' For the first time in his life, Jaggs knew real fear as he wondered anew, 'What the hell is happening!'  
  
With a panicked cry, Jaggs brought his knees up and thrust the other man off of him.  
  
"Who are you?" he screamed.  
  
The other man stood up in the sudden stillness. Calmly, he turned to face the man behind all the terrible things that had befallen his cousin. The face that dominated his own worst nightmares.  
  
"Don't you recognize me?" he hissed. "You've been trying hard enough to kill me, you sorry . . ."  
  
With an inarticulate cry, Jaggs launched himself at his tormentor! Clay stood his ground, slamming his right fist into Jaggs's midsection as hard as he could. He followed it with a left to the jaw. This staggered the older man, rocking him back on his heels. Clay never gave him a chance to recover. All the rage, frustration, and helplessness he had felt since first seeing his cousin lying in that hospital bed, looking more dead than alive, came boiling out of him. He lashed out with a booted foot, knocking the wind out of his opponent. Clay then started pummeling that hated face with a rain of blows that threatened to cave it in! In his mind flashed images of Gary. In the hospital in 'Vegas, his face bruised and bloody. Staying in the saddle by sheer willpower, blood streaming down his back. Lying in Buddy's arms, Clay's own shirt soaked in blood, as they waited for the ambulance. The look on Gary's face as he disappeared over the edge of that bluff!  
  
It wasn't until he felt strong hands grip his arms, heard the voices telling him to 'stop it! You're killing him!' that Clay realized he was sitting on Jaggs's chest, and that the other man was no longer fighting back. Chest heaving, Clay looked down at the bloody mess he had made of Jaggs's face.  
  
"I think he got your message, brother," Buddy told him.  
  
*********  
  
He was standing in the parlor once more. Bright sunlight pouring through the open doorway lent golden highlights to the long blonde hair of the woman from the picture. As she stepped into the room, Captain Gary Chandler swept her into his arms! Their lips met, and the raging hunger each had suffered for more than a hundred years was channeled into a kiss that seemed to go on forever, yet was much too brief.  
  
"God!" he whispered huskily as he pulled her tightly to his chest. "My beloved angel, I thought I would never find you! What happened? Why did you come to Texas? Who . . .?"  
  
"The children!" she said, at almost the same instant. "What happened to our babies?"  
  
Chandler loosened his hold, craning his head back to give her a tender smile. "Our children grew strong and healthy," he told her. "And they had fine families of their own." A sad frown crossed his handsome features as he told her the rest. "They . . . they grew up despising my name," he told her sadly. "They believed I had deserted them. And you. But they always loved you, darling, and treasured your memory."  
  
"But that is so wrong!" she cried. "I never spoke ill of you! I always told them that you would come for us when it was safe!"  
  
"Safe?" Chandler asked, clearly puzzled. "Safe from who? I-I never knew why you ran all the way to Texas! What drove you to abandon little Victoria and me? I know it had to be something horribly frightening to you."  
  
Amanda stepped back from his embrace, fear and shame clouding her lovely countenance. "It was," she told him. "That man you mentioned in your letter. The one whose face you marred. He chanced upon us at the inn on the road to Louisville. How he knew I was your wife, I don't know. Oh, Gary, he was every bit the villain you painted him! He threatened horrible things to the children if I didn't . . . if I told anyone what he was doing to me. He forced me to come with him to California, but we escaped him in Kansas City. He . . . there was . . . a child," she finished, turning away, tears of shame streaming down her cheeks. "A son. H-he was stillborn. I don't know that I could have looked at the child and not seen the monster that had sired him. Thank God I didn't have to find out."  
  
A myriad of emotions rippled across the officer's face as he pulled his wife close once more. The strongest was sorrow. Sorrow at what his beloved . . . his soul mate had suffered at the hands of his sworn enemy. At the desperation and fear that had driven her across country, into exile.  
  
"Damn him," he whispered tearfully. "I curse the day that hell-spawn was given life! If I had known that he was even still alive, I never would have sent you away. You must believe that!"  
  
Tears glistened in her eyes as she stroked his cheek. "I've always known that," she told him, smiling sadly. "Did you get none of my letters?"  
  
"Not one," he told her. "Not hearing from you, n-not knowing what had become of you and the children . . . I was almost mad with worry! I hunted everywhere for you! I twice came here, to this cursed place, to look for you, knowing that . . . the you and she had been close friends at one time. Each time, she sent me in a different direction. If you trusted your letters to her, I fear she destroyed them, rather than send them to me."  
  
"I think, now, that she must have," Amanda sighed. "She was jealous of my 'good fortune.' Many times she told me that she wished the children and I could stay forever. I had no hint as to the depths of her jealousy . . . until she pushed me into the ravine. Did that witch have any hand in raising our children?"  
  
"Only for a time," Chandler sighed. He looked over at Gary Hobson, a sad smile playing over his lips. "Through this one, I learned that they despised my name so much, he is the first to bear it in over a hundred years. It hurt to learn that . . . that they loathed me, so. But I also learned that they lived, married, and had fine families. I must be content with that. Wh-what they think of me, now, is of no importance." His smile brightened as he turned Amanda to face Gary. "Beloved, let me introduce you to the great-grandchild of our daughter, Victoria. His name is Gary Hobson."  
  
Noticing the third person in the 'room' for the first time, Amanda blushed furiously, at first. Then her smile widened in delight as she took in his features, looking first at him, then at her husband.  
  
"My goodness! He looks just like you!" she exclaimed. "He even has your birthmark!" Impulsively, she threw her arms around her great-great-grandchild, pulling him close. "Thank you!" she whispered tearfully. "Thank you so much for bringing my family back together."  
  
"Y-you're welcome, ma'am," Gary stammered, hesitantly returning the embrace. "Th-thank you for . . . for letting me be a part of . . . of this. Are . . . are you two gonna be okay, now? I mean, well, will you be able to . . . you know."  
  
Amanda stepped back with a girlish laugh. "He even has your stutter," she teased her husband. "And your charm." To Gary, she added, "Yes, we'll have to move on shortly. Is there anything we can do to repay you for what you've done for us?"  
  
"N-no," Gary murmured, his ears still burning. "Well, maybe. Wh-what about those guys who were shooting at me?"  
  
"That's all taken care of," Chandler assured him. "We removed you from the path of the bullet before you could be badly injured. You're friends arrived just as you fell. You'll be safe, now. And I must apologize for frightening you. It was the only way to direct you here, and protect you. Anything else?"  
  
"I'd . . . I'd like to do something . . . something more," Gary murmured. "How can I . . . well, clear your name? How can I let your descendants still living today know the truth? I-I have the letter, the one written by President Lincoln. Is there anything else lying around somewhere that I can use to let everyone know what kind of man you really were?"  
  
Captain Chandler shook his head sadly. "What little I left with Victoria was only to provide for her welfare. My father was not a well man, he was dying. I had hoped to return before he died, but . . . When I learned that my family had . . . had vanished, I sold what I could, giving most of the money to Mother so that she would not have that to worry about as well. Don't worry about my 'good name,' Gary. The ones whose opinions I valued most passed over many years ago. I admit that I would like to be remembered with kindness, by someone, but no one can change what has already come to pass. Now, what service can I be to you?"  
  
"Well, um, could you tell me how to get back to, um . . . God! How do I say this?" Gary moaned.   
  
"Once we're gone," Chandler chuckled, "you just have to step through that door, and climb the steps you'll find." He held out his hand, taking Gary's in a firm grip. "Thank you, son. You've done more than made us proud. You've given us back our souls. I have only one more thing to ask of you. Please have our bodies exhumed and taken home. Bury us together, if possible. We've been apart much too long."  
  
"We'll see to it, I promise. And thank you," Gary smiled, "for letting me . . . letting me see through your eyes for even a little while. I never knew you'd even existed, until then. Thank you, too, for giving me the chance to set the record straight."  
  
"Your medal!" Amanda exclaimed. "The one presented with the letter. If . . . if what you said about the children is true, then what did they do with your medal?"  
  
"That's not important, darling" he told her, gently stroking her cheek. "It's merely a reminder of darker times."  
  
"But it meant so much to you!" she moaned. "He pinned it onto your chest with his own hands! Don't let it be lost forever! It's a treasure . . ."  
  
Laying a finger across her lips to silence her, he placed a tender kiss on the corner of her mouth. "The only treasure that matters to me now," he told her softly, " is you."  
  
"Wait!" Gary pleaded. "What medal? Where can I find it?"  
  
"If you think it can help," Chandler shrugged, not taking his eyes off his wife, "then look for my saddle. My old unit had it made for me. It has a plate on the back, with an inscription. Look behind that plate."  
  
Having said that, he guided Amanda to the center of the room and, facing her, pulled her into his arms once more. A fearful expression crossed Amanda's face as she gazed into the eyes of her beloved.   
  
"I'm afraid," she murmured timidly. "We don't know what we'll find over there!"  
  
"Don't be," he whispered gently, as he lowered his face to hers. "We've each been through Hell alone, my dearest. Anyplace we're together . . . is heaven."  
  
His lips covered hers in a deep, soul merging kiss as a soft light swelled within them. As Gary watched in amazement, they slowly melded into two columns of light. One an electric blue, the other pale gold. Then, the two columns merged even further, becoming a single shaft of brilliant white light. The radiance swelled, filling the whole room with an all pervading sense of . . . Gary couldn't find the words to describe it. It was a feeling so powerful, 'Love' just seemed to brush the edges of it. Whatever pain they had suffered in life, and after, they were now united in an emotion that was too primal, too awesome, to name. It completely transcended the physical, and came straight from the heart of creation itself.   
  
When the light faded, Gary found himself alone. After that rush of . . . emotion . . . energy . . . whatever, he felt oddly empty . . . and at peace. With a sigh, he headed for the door. It was time for him to go.  
  
************  
  
Voices. Frantic, excited, distant. They echoed through his mind as he climbed toward the light. The higher he climbed, the harder it was to take that next step. The pain! Oh, God! The fire that burned across his back and shoulders! A moaning whimper escaped his lips as he struggled up that final step.  
  
"He's moving!" someone shouted. "He's alive!"  
  
"Get that rope over here!" Was that Clay? Or Buddy? "Hang in there, cuz! We just gotta find a way down!" Definitely Buddy. "Just don't try to move!"  
  
Not moving was high on Gary's list of priorities at that point. About the only thing that didn't hurt was his left big toenail. Still, he had to consider the fact that he was still breathing as a plus. If only he wasn't lying halfway on his back!  
  
It seemed to take forever before he heard the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves. Opening one eye, he tried to see who it was without moving. The place where he lay was still in shadow, a fact for which he was grateful. One thing he didn't need, right now, was more pain. Soon, there was crunching all around him as more people descended into his leafy bower.  
  
"This is like walkin' on a feather bed," a woman (Polly?) mumbled as the crunching grew louder. "These leaves must be ten feet thick."  
  
"That's probably what saved him!" another voice, that sounded like Ranger Walker, told her. "He's one lucky man."  
  
"I'm not sure I wanna be around when his luck runs out," Peter murmured. "God, Hobson! What did that bastard do to you?"  
  
"Well," Gary whispered, "I'm not . . . not real clear . . . on the d-details, but I think . . . think he beat the crap . . . outta me. Hurts."  
  
"Hobson," Peter replied, "you are a master of understatement." Gingerly, he placed a hand on Gary's left shoulder and rolled him forward, just slightly, to get a better look at his back. "Man!" he hissed. "We shoulda let Clay kill the son of a . . . !"  
  
"Easy, Peter," Walker tried to calm the young Shaolin. "You're breaking training. All life is sacred, remember?"  
  
"That doesn't apply to pond scum," Polly grumbled as she used the key Walker handed her to remove the cuffs from Gary's bloody wrists. Had she been crying? "The closest that creature's ever come to being human was when he first crawled out of the sewer. These grafts may still be okay, but he's gonna need stitches. God! Your back looks like hamburger, sweetie. I'm afraid we can't put off callin' your folks, this time."  
  
"Great," Gary sighed. "Mom's gonna have a cow."  
  
Polly shook her head with a choked laugh (and a little sniffle?). "Hon, when she hears about this, she's gonna corner the beef market. Just be glad there'll be a few thousand miles between you two when she explodes."  
  
*********  
  
It took almost an hour for the EMTs to arrive and help to extricate Gary from his leafy cul-de-sac. As he was being loaded into the Stokes stretcher, Gary told Buddy that he had found Amanda's grave.  
  
"She . . . she's under there . . . somewhere," he told his cousin. Talking was made even harder by the stiff collar they had used to immobilize his head and neck "We . . . need to give her . . . a proper burial . . . with her h-husband. Please? W-will you . . .?"  
  
"I'll see to it, cuz," Buddy promised him as they lay him on the gurney. "You just be still and let these people help you, ya hear?"  
  
As they were getting ready to load him into the ambulance, Gary grabbed Buddy's hand in a surprisingly strong grip.   
  
"They've been too . . . too long apart," he whispered. "Th-their souls are . . . at rest. N-now . . ."  
  
"I got the picture, Gary," the entertainer assured his cousin. Curious, he leaned closer. "D-did you 'see' them?" he whispered. "Are they together?"  
  
"Yes," Gary murmured in a barely audible voice. "It was . . . b-beautiful."  
  
***********  
  
"His back is a mess," the doctor told them candidly. "There were at least nine gashes that required stitches. I don't know how concerned he is about appearances, so I called in a cosmetic surgeon to minimize scarring. He attended to those wrists while he was here, too. Mr. Hobson also has a crease on the right side of his neck, several broken ribs, a dislocated right shoulder, and a bruised right kidney. Other than that, he's in better shape than he looks. From what you've told me, he's an extremely lucky man. His captor was going more for pain than actual damage. His biggest dangers, right now, are infection and having a rib lacerate his liver or puncture a lung."  
  
Polly found that her legs had turned to Jell-O. She sank into the nearest chair, resting her head on her hands as she fought to maintain control. Gary didn't need tears. He needed strength. Until his mother arrived that afternoon, she had to be that strength.  
  
"Does he know a good psychiatrist?" the doctor was asking. "In situations such as this, we usually recommend extensive therapy."  
  
"Y-yes," Polly sniffed. "Um, yes. He's been . . . been treated for . . . for a similar experience last year. Wh-when can we see him?"  
  
"He's being moved up to a room right now," the physician replied, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your friend is fine. He's just very tired, right now, and heavily sedated. Give him a couple of hours, then you can go in a few at a time. Don't expect him to make much sense, at first," he chuckled. "He was mumbling something about 'bright lights' and a 'parlor.' CT was negative, and there was no outward evidence of head trauma other than a swelling behind his right ear. We think he's just suffering from hallucinations brought on by trauma and dehydration. Why don't you go get something to eat? We have your cell-phone number. If anything changes, we'll call you."  
  
"Thank you," Buddy murmured when Polly just nodded. He took her by the arm and helped her up from the chair. "A coupla hours? We'll be back before he wakes up. C'mon, Polly. We'll go tell the others."  
  
The doctor started to turn as if to go, then stopped, looking at Buddy more closely. "You'll probably think this is a dumb question," he said, "but I have ask it anyway. Are you and Mr. Hobson twins? The resemblance is incredible."  
  
"Cousins," Buddy replied with a shake of his head. "My twin is getting his hands seen to, and another cousin is waiting out in the RV. Just thought I'd better warn ya, we're practically clones."  
  
The doctor's eyes brightened. "Would you mind if I talk to the four of you before you leave?" he asked.. "I'm doing a thesis on dominant and recessive genetic traits. You guys would make a fascinating case study. I'll pay you handsomely for your time."  
  
"Um, yeah," Buddy murmured. "That sounds . . . interestin'. Um, Polly, Peter, let's not keep the others waitin'." He turned them toward the entrance, walking a little faster than necessary.   
  
"Slow down," Peter chuckled. "What's the rush?"   
  
"Sorry," Buddy sighed, slowing down slightly. "I just smell a bunch of needles and test tubes in his offer. You okay, Polly?"  
  
"Y-yeah, I'm fine," she stammered as they stepped through the door. "Just give me a minute before we go in." She wiped her hands across her cheeks, trying to obliterate the evidence. She looked up at her two 'escorts.' "You tell anyone I was cryin' and I'll spike your coffee with prune juice."  
  
Wordlessly, Peter handed her a tissue. "Your secret's safe with us," he replied. "You two are pretty close, aren't you?"  
  
"First time I saw him," the tech sighed, "was when he was brought in after . . . a terrible accident. He was more dead than alive. At first, they weren't really holdin' out a lot of hope for 'im. At best, he should've been a vegetable. But he hung in there, and he fought, and he woke up after just a few days. They kept telling' 'im not to give up hope. That he should be able to walk again, but they were just sayin' that for his benefit. They thought he'd run out of miracles." She bit her lip, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "You've seen him. If you hadn't seen that picture, you never would've known he'd been stuck in a wheelchair for months," she added, a note of pride in her voice. "I've never doubted that, no matter what life threw at him, Gary could handle it. N-not once . . . until I saw him go over that bluff . . . saw him lyin' there . . . so . . . still. It scared the crap outta me. I was gonna turn around and kill that SOB right there. Then, Walker saw him move . . ." Polly closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I'm beginning to think he has a direct pipeline to God. The miracles just keep on a comin'." She looked up at the two solemn faces. "I wanna be there when they put the needle to that sick piece o' sh--. I wanna watch him die."  
  
"I don't know if we can arrange it, Polly," Peter warned her. "I'll talk to Alex and see what we can do, but you have to be sure about this. It's supposed to be humane and peaceful, but dead is dead. No matter how you paint it, it's never pretty."  
  
"Right this minute," she replied stonily, "I'm as sure as I'll ever be. Check with me again after I've talked to Gary. Right now, I feel like we need to celebrate a little. Jaggs and his cohorts are all in jail, Gary's safe and alive, and we can breathe easy for the first time since 'Vegas. If I were a drinkin' woman, I'd be tempted to get plastered. Since I'm not, how's about we get Clay and the others, then I'll spring for pizza?"  
  
********  
  
Gary's first impression was of something cool on his forehead. Then there was a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to encompass his entire body. Did he have anywhere that didn't hurt? With a low, throaty moan he turned his head into that comforting touch.  
  
"Hey, darlin'," a familiar voice crooned. "Time to open those puppy-dog eyes and rejoin the world."  
  
"P-Polly?" he murmured.  
  
"Got it in one," she chuckled. "How do you feel?"  
  
"About like I look," Gary replied in a near whisper. "Hurts like hell. Wh-what took ya'll s'long to find me? Di'n' that. . . . that tracker thing work?"  
  
"It might have," Peter said from behind him, "if they hadn't found it. I thought we told you to put it someplace they weren't likely to look? What'd you do? Put it in your shirt pocket?"  
  
"N-no," Gary mumbled, puzzled. "I taped it to the inside of my . . . wh-where that guy suggested that I . . . God! H-how'd they find it there w-without . . .?"  
  
Polly hadn't thought it was possible for Gary to lose any more color. She was quick to assure him that, given who they were dealing with, they had immediately had him checked over to rule out the very thing he feared had happened.  
  
"There was no . . . assault," she told him. "Not of that type, at least. But they must've done a strip search in order to find it down . . . down there." She was secretly pleased to see a slow flush infuse Gary's pallid features. Embarrassment was a normal, healthy reaction to such a revelation.   
  
"Oh, God!" he moaned, covering his face with his left hand. "Just strike me now! Please?" Then he noticed that his right arm was strapped down. "Wh-what . . .?"  
  
"You dislocated your shoulder," Peter told him. "You also left behind an impressive amount of skin."  
  
"H-how, umph, how many ribs . . .d-did I break . . . this time?" Gary murmured, managing a weak smile.  
  
"Four on the right," Polly told him. "To match the ones you already had on the left. They had to clean a lot of dirt and such out of the wounds on your back. The bullet wound had reopened. Your back looks like a crazy quilt, hon, but they assured me that you'll hardly notice the scars after a while. Same goes for those gashes on your shoulder. Did Jaggs do that, too?"  
  
"N-no." Gary explained about the house, and the bizarre actions of the owl. "Th-there's something . . . wrong with that place. S-something . . . I-I don't know . . . dark." He looked around, as if just noticing that something, or someone, was missing. "Where 're Jake 'n' the twins?" he asked. "Are they okay?"  
  
Peter mumbled something as he handed Polly a ten-dollar bill. "You guys 're spooky," he growled, "you know that?" At Gary's puzzled look, Peter explained, "Polly said you'd be asking if someone was okay before you'd been awake ten minutes." He looked at his watch. "Seven and a half. Not bad. I'm surprised you could restrain yourself for that long."  
  
"So I'm predictable," Gary grumbled. "Could you answer the question? Please?"  
  
"They're out in the hall with the others," Polly told him. "The doctor said to keep it down to two at a time. Think you can handle more than that?"  
  
"It's a big room," Gary murmured. "Bring 'em on."  
  
Polly smiled as she rose from her seat and stepped to the door. She poked her head out, beckoning to the people standing around in the hall. Stepping back, she allowed the others to file in, arranging themselves around the bed.  
  
"How ya feelin', cuz?" Buddy asked.  
  
"Like a sore tooth," Gary replied with a tired smile. "Thanks for ridin' t' the rescue. Wha's wrong with your hands, Clay?"   
  
Clay looked down at the bandages on his right hand, and the cast on the left one. "Nothin' much," he murmured. "Just had to work off a little steam."  
  
"Yeah," Jake grinned. "He 'vented' all over Jaggs's face. That man won't be looking in any mirrors without scaring himself. Not for awhile, anyway."  
  
Gary studied his cousin's grim visage and figured he could fill in the blanks with little trouble. "D'ya break his jaw?" he asked.  
  
The corner of Clay's mouth twitched as he nodded, meeting Gary's eyes for the first time since entering the room. "In three places," he assured the injured man. "And three ribs."  
  
"Good," Gary sighed. "That oughta shut 'im up. He talks to much."  
  
"Well," Buddy grinned, "he won't be doin' much talkin' for about a month. And those two goons that chased us all the way from 'Vegas? They can't shut up. They can't wait to get back to prison. O' course, that could be because Polly told 'em she'd be waiting outside the gate for 'em to get out. With a dull knife."  
  
Gary gave his friend a puzzled look. "Whatever for?"  
  
Polly looked away with a shrug, biting her lower lip as she considered how to answer that without embarrassing herself too much. "I was, um, thinkin' of expandin' my resume¢," she told him. "You know. A little veterinary surgery?"  
  
Blame it on his injuries. It took Gary almost a full fifteen seconds to figure it out.  
  
"You threatened to neuter them?" he asked incredulously. "Really?"  
  
"Really," Ranger Walker assured him grimly. "That's how we knew where they took you. She offered a free demonstration. Hicks couldn't talk fast enough."  
  
"Especially after she almost pulled Sykes beard out by the roots," Peter added with a shudder. "Where did you learn your technique, Polly? 'Apocalypse Now?'"  
  
"Reruns of 'Tour Of Duty,'" Polly grumbled irritably. "I was inspired, okay? Jaggs was beatin' the crap outta Gary and I was not in a good mood!"  
  
"W-wait," Gary pleaded, holding up his good hand as if to physically silence them. "I'm getting real confused here. How did you know Jaggs was . . . that he . . .?"  
  
"That doesn't matter," Polly hastened to say. "The important thing is, you're here, you're safe, and the danger is over. You guys can enjoy the peace and quiet you came out here to find." She shot Sammo and Clay a pointed look. "Right, guys?"  
  
Gary decided to let it drop. For the moment. He had a feeling that it had something to do with that 'link' Polly had revealed to him in 'Vegas. Just how strong was this 'link,' he wondered?   
  
"The police are clearin' away all that debris," Buddy told him, giving Polly a speculative glance. "They'll let us know if there really is a body down there . . ."  
  
"There is," Gary assured him. "Th-the woman who owned the place, Amanda's so called 'friend,' shoved her over at almost the exact spot where I . . . where I fell. She wanted the kids bad enough to kill for them. I don't know if she was crazy, or if she had something . . . sinister in mind. I just know that she murdered a woman who trusted her with more than her own life."  
  
"And you know this . . . how?" Walker asked.  
  
Gary glanced at Peter, who gave him a silent nod, then to the Ranger. "Just . . . how opened minded . . . are you?" he asked.  
  
*********  
  
"And that's everything," Gary sighed over half an hour later. "I-I know it sounds . . . weird . . . delusional . . . whatever, b-but her body is down there. I promised to exhume both bodies and . . . and rebury them next to each other. In their family cemetery in Ohio, if possible."  
  
"It is important to them?" Kwai Chang asked.  
  
"Very," Gary replied, his voice husky from so much talking.  
  
"Yet . . . you say their spirits have moved on," the Shaolin reminded him.  
  
Gary ran his free hand through his hair as he groped for the right words to convey what he had felt as he'd spoken to his ancestors.  
  
"It's a-a symbolic thing, I think," he told them. "Something to show that . . . that what happened wasn't an act of desertion by either party. Terrible things happened on both sides that led to . . . to . . . God! How do I . . . It's for the kids. Their kids died thinking that their dad had run out on 'em. They both just wanted to set the record straight. He was a good man who wanted nothing more in life than to have his family whole again. H-having their graves together . . . that's kind of a . . . a symbol that their descendants can look at and know that . . . that somewhere . . . they're a family again." He looked at the others, licking his lips in uncertainty. "Did . . . did that make any sense, or was I babbling again?"  
  
Impulsively, Alex Cahill stepped up and planted a chaste kiss on Gary's forehead. "It made wonderful sense," she told him, smiling gently. "No matter if the rest of if does sound like an hallucination, for that reason, alone, we should go ahead with your request. That had to be one of the most romantic stories I've ever heard," she sniffed, wiping a tear from her eye.   
  
Walker just rolled his eyes in a gesture that said, 'I'll be hearing about this for a long time!'  
  
*********** 


	7. The Long Journey Home

Gary was finding eating with only one hand, especially his left one, to be a bit awkward. True, it was just clear liquids, which could only be considered 'food' for its nutrient value . . . but that Jell-O cup just would not sit still!  
  
"Need some help, sweetie?"  
  
Startled, Gary dropped his spoon with a clatter as the offensive plastic container skittered across the tray. He tried to catch it, only to have the sudden motion send a flash of fire across his back. Biting back a curse, he glanced up to see his mom reaching down to corner the elusive Jell-O cup.  
  
"Let me get that, hon," Lois chuckled. "You don't have enough hands." She picked up the spoon and scooped out a dollop of the gelatin. "Say 'ah.'"  
  
Gary obediently opened his mouth and let her feed him the Jell-O.   
  
"Thanks, Mom," he murmured between bites.  
  
"We have got to do something," Lois sighed, "about this unholy attraction you seem to have for hospitals, lately! When that Ms. Gannon called me this morning and told me what happened . . . And poor Clay feels so guilty, he's been apologizing since I stepped off the plane! And did you see his hands? That poor boy!"  
  
"Mom," Gary mumbled around a mouthful of gelatin, "we're not . . . Never mind," he sighed. They were still having trouble convincing Polly that they were no longer 'boys,' and she was younger than Lois! "Please don't take this wrong. I-I'm really glad to see you and all, but y-you didn't need to fly all the way out here . . . Wh-what I mean is . . . Do you really trust Dad t-to take care of . . . things?"   
  
"It's not like I had a whole lot of choices, Gary," his mother frowned. "As soon as I heard you were hurt . . . Did you think I could just sit home and wait for news bulletins? You're my son. You're lucky I could talk him into staying behind. Otherwise there wouldn't have been anyone left to take care of . . . things." She spooned another scoop of Jell-O into his mouth. "I've been talking with Ms. Gannon."  
  
'Uh-oh,' Gary thought. 'That doesn't sound good.' "Wh-what about?" he ventured to ask.  
  
"The . . . um, 'gentlemen' . . . who did this to you," she replied, grinning at Gary's relieved sigh. "After hearing some of her ideas, I'm beginning to like her. Of course, most of what she wants to do to them is . . . well, I just don't think they're physically possible! Can a person live without that many vital organs? The neutering, however . . ."  
  
"Mom!" Gary protested. "Please! I'm trying to eat here!" He looked down at his empty tray and winced. "Sorta, anyway!"  
  
"So, how are you feeling, hon?" Lois asked solicitously. "Are you in a lot of pain?"  
  
Gary stifled an involuntary comment as he remembered, too late, not to shrug. "Only when I move," he sighed. "I've been trying to do as little of that as possible, I promise. H-how 'bout you 'n' Dad? I-is everything okay at home?"  
  
"Well . . . yes," was her hesitant reply. "I've had to ask Marion Crumb to keep an eye on him. That man has absolutely no concept of danger! I tell you, if he doesn't stop rushing headlong into things . . .! At least you try to plan ahead. He just goes charging in there as if he's Superman! Just last week he went into a bank holdup with a water pistol! Well, I took my time posting bail that time, let me . . ."  
  
Gary started to raise one hand to cut off her rapid patter, only to have her stop anyway when the pain caused all the blood to drain from his face.  
  
"I-I'm okay," he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut until the fire in his back had burned itself out. "Just . . . just moved too fast. Y-you didn't tell Crumb about . . . about the Paper?"  
  
"Of course not, Gary!" Lois snorted daintily. "I told him that I was worried that your father was having another 'mid-life crisis.' That he was doing foolish things to prove he still could. Which is probably closer to the truth than he wants to admit! Anyway, Marion is going to try to keep him out of trouble until we get back. I've talked with your doctor and he thinks you should be able to travel in a few days. I've already made our reservations and . . ."  
  
Gingerly, Gary brought his hand up again. "Could you slow down? Please?" he begged. "You're talking faster than I can listen!"  
  
"Oh! Oh dear!" Lois continued in a more subdued voice. "I'm sorry. It's just that . . . well, this is the first time I've visited you in a hospital without having to wait for you to regain consciousness. And it was such a relief to find out you hadn't been within an ace of dying! Not that it doesn't tear me apart that you went through such a terrible ordeal . . .!"  
  
"M-Mom, I need to ask you some questions," Gary finally spoke up, halting her frenetic chatter. "I-I need to know some . . . some family history. D-do you remember telling me about great-grandma Victoria? How she was adopted by this family that took her in after her parents died?"  
  
Lois fell silent as she searched her memory. "Ye-es," she murmured hesitantly. "She was taken in by the Millers, her grandparents' neighbors. Why?"  
  
Gary licked his lips nervously. This was it. The chance to prove the tie-in with the Chandler 'saga,' as if he really needed proof. "Did she ever tell you what her real parents names were?"  
  
Biting her own lip in concentration, Lois finally had to shake her head. "She refused to talk about them," she sighed. "I think . . . I think she hated them for dying when she was so young. Oh, when I told her I was going to name my first-born Gary, after my favorite actor, Gary Cooper, she was furious! Told me never to bring you near her if I did. Well, that just made me even more determined than ever. No one was going to tell me what to name my son!" She frowned at the recollection. "I was never invited back to her house after that," she sighed. "I tried to reconcile with her before she died, when I was sixteen, but she refused to speak to me. Wouldn't even tell me why she hated that name so much!"  
  
"W-wait!" Gary pleaded, holding his hand up once more. "She died in '57? How old was she?"  
  
"One Hundred and one," Lois informed him proudly.   
  
"I-I'm getting confused here," Gary sighed. "Great-grandmother Victoria was in her eighties when you were born? H-how old was she when Grandma was born? She just turned ninety-five this year! And you told me she was thirty-eight when you were born!"  
  
Lois patted her son's free hand gently as she explained things to him. "Your Grandmother Jolene, my mother, was the youngest of twelve children, only five of which lived to adulthood," she told him sadly. "A flu epidemic took three before the age of ten. Measles claimed two more, and two died from small pox. Which was even more devastating to her because she survived it when she was twelve. People tried to have a lot of children back then, to help with the farm or family business, and in hopes that some would survive to carry on the family name. Your great-grandmother was forty-seven when my mother was born. Something that was almost unheard of, even then."  
  
"Look, Mom," Gary murmured anxiously. "This is real important to me, right now. I need to know what her birth parents names were. Can you think of anyplace it might be written down? Church records, marriage certificates, birth records? Anything?"  
  
"It's that important to you?" she asked. When he nodded in tight-lipped silence, Lois looked away with a sigh. "Well, I could try calling cousin Henry's son, George, I suppose," she told him. "He inherited the family bible from Uncle Steven. He was the oldest surviving male. I seem to recall that it was almost one hundred and fifty years old. It was probably given to her parents as a wedding present. Surely that would have their names inscribed in it somewhere."  
  
"Would you call him today, Mom?" Gary pleaded. "Please? I can't even begin to tell you how important this could be!"  
  
"Well," Lois replied, rising to go, "you'd better give it your best shot when I get back. I smell a whopper of a story here, sweetie."  
  
"Wait! Where are you going?" Gary asked. "You can use this phone, can't you?"  
  
"That's okay, Gary," she smiled grimly. "I don't want you to hear how I may have to talk to cousin George. That man can be such a jerk, sometimes."  
  
**************  
  
Lois returned half an hour later to find the tiny hospital room almost too crowded for her to squeeze in. There were the two Cains, father and son, the twins and Jake Evans, that Ms. Gannon who had such interesting ideas on corporal punishment, and three people she had never seen before.   
  
"Um, Mom, y-you know most of this crowd," Gary stammered. "Th-this is Alex Cahill, with the DA's office in Dallas. The gentleman with the badge is Cordell Walker of the Texas Rangers. And the other is Sammo Law, assigned temporarily to the LAPD. Did I get all that right?"  
  
"You did fine, Gary," Alex chuckled. She stepped up and took Lois's hand in a firm grip. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I'm just sorry it had to be under these circumstances."  
  
"So am I," Lois murmured. "Weren't your people supposed to be watching over my son?"  
  
"That . . . was partly my fault," Peter quickly spoke up. "It was a kinda semi-rural area, and we couldn't follow too close or take a chance on scaring those . . . 'gentlemen' off. As soon as Polly called to tell us that Gary was going out alone, we moved in. By that time, they were loading him into the van."  
  
"I, also, was too late to be of assistance," Kwai Chang apologized. "I was so enthralled with the mystery he had presented me, that I . . . let my guard down?"  
  
Gary cautiously raised his hand to cut off the angry retort he could see coming. "No one let anything happen," he told her. "I was feeling . . . I had to get out, Mom. I had to, or go crazy. So . . . can we just be happy it's over?"  
  
"It ain't over," Clay grumbled dismally. "Not 'til I see Jaggs Neff's cold dead body lowered into a hole and covered with six feet of Texas dirt."   
  
"All the same," Gary sighed, "the danger is past, we're all alive and well . . . for the most part," he added as every eye in the room turned his way. "C'mon, guys! Help me out here! Aren't you supposed to be cheering me up?" Wincing as he shifted his position slightly, Gary turned to his mother. "What did Cousin George say? Did he have it?"  
  
Lois glanced around warily as she took the empty chair near the head of the bed. "Well, I had to threaten a little blackmail," she told him, "but he finally dug it out. I was right. It was inscribed as a wedding present from an older brother, I think. Anyway, someone tried to scratch out the names, but I guess their heart wasn't in it. He could clearly read them as Gary Martin Chandler and Amanda Louise Beaumont. They had five children who all lived to ripe old ages, but it only lists Grandmother Victoria's children and grandchildren. Funny thing, though. It lists her parents birth dates, but not when they died."  
  
"They didn't know," Gary sighed. "Not exactly. You don't happen to know where the Chandler family cemetery is, do you?"  
  
"Now how would I know that, dear," Lois gently chided her son. "I just found out we were related. Now, could someone please tell me what this is all about?"  
  
Chuckling, Peter Cain laid a hand on her shoulder. "Settle back, Mrs. Hobson," he told her. "This may take a while."  
  
***********  
  
"And that's as much as we know," Sammo concluded in his stilted English. "When we retrieved your son from the ravine, he was unable to tell us much, at first. Only that we would find the remains of your ancestress below the place where he fell." Turning to Gary, he added. "You were correct about the body. It was almost directly below you, under about ten feet of debris."  
  
"The forensics lab wants a sample of blood from each of you," Walker told the four cousins, "so they can do a DNA comparison." He looked at Gary and grinned. "Not you, though. We got plenty of yours from the bandages."  
  
"That's small consolation," Gary grumbled.  
  
"Damn!" Buddy grumbled. "I knew there was gonna be needles involved before this was over! Your doctor's wantin' to run some tests, too. He told me just a bit ago that these tests would prove Clay and I were brothers. I told him we already knew that," he added with a nervous chuckle. "Um, b-by the way, Gary. I, ahm, I called my folks and explained that we wouldn't be drivin' down this week, what with you bein' laid up, an' all. They, um, they said to tell you that, well . . . they'll be here by mornin'. They can't wait to meet everyone!"   
  
So why did he sound so nervous?  
  
**********  
  
After a while, Cordell and Alex had to leave, saying something about wedding preparations. Soon, the others started trickling out, on one pretext or another, until it was just Gary, his mom, and Polly. Lois was finally able to get the full story of the tech's involvement in the whole affair. As well as her attempts to keep Gary in one piece. Although, Polly carefully skirted the issue of their 'link.'  
  
"He's been goin' through some rough times," Polly told her. "Almost as bad as last year. And we found another cousin. Peter Keith Blessing is his full name. I have his address if you want it."  
  
"That'll be great," Lois said. "I can just see all the faces at the family reunion, next May! Cousin Henry will have a fit! Oh! And you absolutely have to tell them about great-grandfather Gary and great-grandmother Amanda. How they were torn apart by a cruel, uncaring fate, dying so young, and so far apart! Only to be reunited by their great great grandchild so that they could spend eternity together! That has to be the most romantic story that anyone in our family has ever come up with! It certainly beats the one your Aunt Ruth keeps telling about how she met her first husband in Paris during 'The War.' You know," Lois added thoughtfully, "she never has said which war. I think . . ."  
  
"M-mom," Gary stammered. "I can't tell that part! They'll think I'm crazy!"  
  
"Not if you tell them it came to you in a dream," she sighed, her eyes taking on a 'dreamy' look of their own. "They appeared, two radiant spirits, vowing their undying love for each other, as you were fighting your way back to consciousness! They had but one request. That their earthly remains be exhumed, and returned to their family plot so that they could never be separated again!"  
  
Gary gave his mother an amused look of mock concern. "You've been reading those Harlequin romances again, haven't you?"  
  
"Oh, you!" Lois giggled, giving his hand a gentle slap. "I'm in a good mood. Don't spoil it, mister!"  
  
"You know," Polly mused, "if we all put our heads together, we could write this up as fiction and pitch it to one of those romance publishers. I bet it'll sell like hotcakes."  
  
"If you mean the whole story," Lois grinned, "it'll have to be either action, fantasy, or science fiction. We could change all the names, and divide the more traumatic events among all four boys. No one would buy all of this happening to just one of them! I mean, honestly, we have to at least make it remotely feasible!"  
  
"What?" Gary exclaimed. "You don't believe me?"  
  
"Of course, I believe you, sweetie!" Lois replied earnestly. "But that's only because I know you! You'd never make up something so fantastic. If anyone else had come to me with a story like that, I would've been looking around for the nearest mental hospital. Or a movie crew."  
  
Gary didn't know how to answer that, so he wisely said nothing.   
  
"I can't wait to meet Buddy's parents tomorrow," Lois continued. "I've been wondering how they came to adopt him. Was it through the state? Or was it through some confederate of the people who stole him? Why did they finally tell him he was adopted, and when? Some kids go almost their whole lives without being told. And why on earth did they saddle him with that name!"  
  
Glancing at her watch, Polly saw that visiting hours were about to end. "For the answer to these and many other fascinating questions, Bat-fans," she quipped, "tune in tomorrow. Same Bat-time. Same Bat-channel. It's time for us to call it a night and let our patient get some rest. Good night, sweetie. We'll be back in right after breakfast." Taking a protesting Lois by the arm, she led her toward the door. "C'mon, hon," she insisted. "The last thing he needs, right now, is someone else watching over him. He's already feeling like a caged lab rat."  
  
"But . . . he needs . . ."  
  
"To be left alone," Polly told her.  
  
"What if . . .?"  
  
"No. The worst is over," the tech reminded her. "All the bad guys are in jail. He's perfectly safe."  
  
"I can't just leave him all alone!"  
  
Polly heaved a sigh of frustration as she turned to look at Gary.  
  
"Polly's right on this one, Mom," he grinned. "I'll be fine. Good-night."  
  
"Are you sure?"   
  
"Goodnight, Mom!" he sighed. Then, giving her a tired grin, he added, "I love you, too."  
  
******************  
  
Early the next morning, Gary was having to submit to his mother feeding him again. The doctor had upgraded him to soft solids, so he was allowed his choice of oatmeal or eggs with toast. Gary was never big on oatmeal.   
  
"You don't have to do this, Mo-umph!"  
  
"Well, you can't manage with just one hand," Lois told him as she prepared another forkful of eggs. "Until they unstrap that arm, you're just going to have to get used to it. After we're through, the nurses need to give you a bath and change your bandages. We want to you to look nice when Buddy's adoptive parents get here." She gently stroked his heavily stubbled cheek. "You need a shave, too. I'll do that, if you like."  
  
"Th-that'd be nice, Mom," Gary stammered, a slow flush coloring him to his hairline. "Y-you're not gonna help with the bath, are you?"  
  
"Of course not, dear," Lois chuckled. "I'll leave that to the nurses." She fed him another bite of eggs, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "They're drawing lots right now. Winner gets the honors."  
  
She hadn't thought her son's face could get any redder, under the circumstances. She was wrong. Gary lay his head back with a low, whimpering groan.  
  
"God!" he sighed, frustrated. "I just wanna be able to take care of these things myself! I'm not a baby anymore!"  
  
"I'm just teasing, hon," Lois giggled. "After hearing them talk about you yesterday, I couldn't resist. I'm so sorry."  
  
"Very funny, Mom," Gary grumbled. "You haven't seen some of the looks I've been getting. Like they're sizing me up for the slaughter."  
  
"Umph! N-not to change the subject," Lois chuckled, "but . . ."  
  
"Oh, please!" Gary interjected. "L-let's do change the subject!"  
  
"Okay, okay!" his mother laughed. "Have you seen the twins or Jake this morning? Ranger Walker was looking for them. Clay needs to give a deposition against this Neff fella, and they all need to go over their statements. Ms. Gannon, too."  
  
"I don't know about the others," Gary murmured thoughtfully, "but Buddy is probably on his way to the airport to pick up his parents."  
  
"Oh, good! I was hoping to meet them before we . . ."  
  
There was a tentative knock on the door. Before Lois had a chance to answer, it was pushed open by a pleasant faced couple in their early sixties.  
  
"Excuse me," the woman said as she spied Lois. "We were told our son might be . . ." She paused in mid-sentence, her eyes growing wide in shock as she spied the figure on the bed. "Oh, my Lord!" she gasped, running into the room and throwing her arms around Gary. "My poah baby! No one said you were injured! Oh, Beauregard! Child, where does it hurt?"  
  
"No! Don't!" Gary protested, trying to bring his good arm up to fend her off. He was just a split second too slow.   
  
"No!" Lois screamed, halting the man in his tracks. "Don't touch his . . . back!"  
  
Too late. The moment the woman yanked him forward, into a bear hug, Gary had to bite his lip to keep from screaming! As it was, a choked whimper alerted the woman to his acute discomfort. Startled, she loosened her hold on Gary, only to find Lois tugging at the hands pressed against his back! The white faced young man clutched at the sleeve of her jacket with a spastic grip, his face   
pressed against her shoulder so tight, she could feel his jaw muscles clenching, as shudders ran through his body!  
  
"Oh, God!" he whispered in a trembling voice. "Oh, Lord! D-don't ever . . . d-do that . . . again! I-I'm n-not B-Buddy!" he gasped.   
  
"What are you sayin', child?" the woman asked, leaning back to give him a concerned look. "Did you hit yo'ah head? Of course yo'ah my Beauregard! Don't you think I'd know the child I raised from a baby?"  
  
"Trust me, sweetie," Lois growled, prying her hands away from Gary's back, "not this time. This is my son, Gary Hobson. Let go, dear. That's a good boy," she added as she went to work loosening his fingers from the strange woman's sleeve. "Can you lay back?"  
  
"No," he gasped. "Hurts."  
  
Reaching for the call button, Lois rang for the nurse. While they waited for her appearance, Lois gently eased onto the bed and pulled Gary close, careful not to touch his back. With a soft groan, he lay his head on her shoulder, trying to breathe through the pain.   
  
"Just what is going on heah," the man asked. "Why doesn't our boy recognize us?"  
  
Keeping one hand to the back of Gary's head, the other on the arm clamped about her waist, Lois turned her head just enough to glare at the confused couple.  
  
"What part of 'he's not Buddy' are you having trouble with?" she snapped. "This is my son, Gary Hobson. He and Buddy are cousins. Buddy is on his way to the airport to meet your flight."  
  
"We took an earlier . . . Oh, my Lord!" the man gasped. "Oh, my deah Lord! I must apologize for this horrible misunderstanding! When we got the call from Buddy, saying that he wouldn't be comin' home after all, we jumped on the first flight out of Houston. We checked at his hotel, and they said we might find him heah. Then, when we . . . Wheah are my manners? My name is Nathaniel Jackson. This is my wife, Evangeline."  
  
"Lois Hobson," Gary's mom mumbled by way of introduction. She was gently rocking Gary as spasms of pain wracked his body. "You've met my son Gary," she added dryly. "Please don't touch his back. The sick bast- . . . individuals who kidnapped him tried to take all the hide off of it with a rusty chain. You might want to call the airport and see if they can find Buddy. I'm sure he's getting worried by now."  
  
"Oh, deah," Evangeline murmured, stroking Gary's hair. "Child, I'm so sorry. If I had known . . . Bless yoah soul. We just came rushin' over, thinkin' he was hurt. But the nurses at the desk said that he was just visitin' someone. Then, when we saw you . . . the resemblance is uncanny! Oh! I don't know what to make of any of this!"  
  
"S'okay," Gary grunted. "N-nat'ral m-mistake. No . . . no harm done." He released his grip on his mother, taking a cautious breath. "I-it's not so bad . . . now," he told her. "I-I'm okay." He looked up at Buddy's adoptive parents as Lois wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "If you think . . . think this is . . . confusing, w-wait 'til th-the others . . . g-get here."  
  
***********  
  
Buddy pulled the RV up as close to the main entrance as he could. Putting the big vehicle into 'park,' he turned in his seat to look at his passengers. "Ya'll go on in," he told them. "I'm gonna check in at the motel an' see if they left a message."  
  
"Good idea," Jake murmured. He gave a long, slow stretch as he tried to ease the kink in his back from sitting too long. "They must've had to catch a later flight." He turned to help Clay up from his seat. The rodeo star was having trouble unfastening his seatbelt with his injured hands. "Let me get that."  
  
"Thanks," Clay mumbled as Jake helped him to his feet. "I'm startin' t' see what Gary means about feelin' helpless. This is kinda pitiful."  
  
"I can see that," Jake chuckled. "Sorry. I just wish you'd left a little for the rest of us. You really messed up that guys face! You want me to go to the clinic with you?"  
  
"Nah," Clay shrugged. "I can make it fine. I just have to pick up a copy of my records. Tell Gary I'll be along in a little bit."  
  
"Sure thing." Jake parted company with Clay in the lobby. As the cowboy headed off to find the Health Information Services office, the banker took the elevator up to Gary's floor. The moment the doors slid open he strode briskly toward his cousin's room. That bit of information still threw him. Imagine finding a whole family he'd never known existed! The amazing resemblance had been incredible enough. To learn that they truly were related . . .! How would Joan react to suddenly learning that there were not just three other men that looked like him, but five!  
  
Jake was still going over the possible scenarios in his mind when he entered the waiting area. There was Gary's mom. She was talking with an elderly couple in their early sixties. There was a petite, slender woman with silver-gray hair, and a tall, raw-boned man with a thick shock of white hair. The instant Lois spotted him, she smiled and waved him over. The others turned to see who she was smiling at. Instantly, the tiny woman jumped up and, with a hushed cry of "Beauregard!" rushed over to a startled Jake and threw her arms around him!  
  
The young banker would never have believed that such slender arms could hold such strength! Caught off guard by the tiny woman's enthusiasm, he hadn't had time to get a breath in. Then she proceeded to squeeze what little he had out!  
  
"Air!" he wheezed, trying to pry her arms loose. "N-need air!"  
  
Hurt and confused by this lukewarm reaction from the man she had thought to be her son, Mrs. Jackson released her hold, taking a step back.  
  
"Child," she whimpered, "you never used to be this . . . cold! What's wrong? Aren't you happy to see yoah family?"  
  
"Ma'am," Jake sighed, "I'm never that happy to see my own family, let alone someone else's." He gingerly probed his ribs to see if they were intact. "I take it that you're Buddy's mom and dad?"  
  
Now she was totally flustered! "Y-yoah not . . .?" Evangeline stammered. "But you look so much like . . . Oh deah, I don't know what to think! If yoah not my Beauregard, then who are you?"  
  
"Jake Evans," the young banker replied. "From Chicago. I'm sorry to have been so brusque a moment ago," he apologized, taking her hand and, emulating Gary with Ellie, gently kissed her fingers. "You kinda scared my manners right out the window."   
  
"Well," Mrs. Jackson giggled, "you seem to have enticed them back, young man. Apology accepted. Oh my," she sighed, suddenly serious again. "This is evah so confusin'! First that poah Mr. Hobson that I so thoughtlessly . . . Now you! I do wish he'd warned us what to expect!"  
  
"Mother," Mr. Jackson chuckled, coming up behind his wife, "the moment the boy told you he was gonna be stuck in Dallas for a while, you dropped the phone and started callin' airlines. He nevah had a chance to tell us!" Turning to Jake, he quickly introduced himself and his wife. "This is amazing'," he added in an awed voice. "The resemblance between you boys is absolutely uncanny! Ya'll must be havin' the time of yoah lives confusin' folks."  
  
Jake couldn't help a slight grimace. "I'm afraid it hasn't been much fun for Gary," he sighed. "The guys who put him here were actually after someone else who looks just like . . ."  
  
"Beauregard!"  
  
Turning, Jake saw Clay rounding the corner into the waiting area. Startled by the loud cry, the cowboy looked over his shoulder to see if his brother had come up behind him. This left him a little off balance for Mrs. Jackson's frontal assault. Jake had to bite back a grin as he caught the confused look on Clay's face when the tiny woman almost squeezed the breath out of him! Before he could say anything, she sprang back and began fussing over his injuries!  
  
"My poah baby!" she exclaimed, taking his bandaged right hand in hers. "Oh, child, how did this happen? You poah thing! Come have a seat. Oh, my poah Beauregard!"  
  
As soon she mentioned that name, Clay's glazed look turned to one of dawning comprehension. "You must be Buddy's mother," he said with a tired grin. He wrapped his good arm around her and kissed her cheek. "I'm glad to finally meet you. I'm Clay Treyton, his twin brother."  
  
Stunned, Mrs. Jackson stepped back to take a more careful look at the young man before her. The only difference she could see between him and her son was a tiny scar on the right side of his upper lip. And she had to look close to find that! Confused, she looked from Clay, to Jake, and then to Lois. Her senses kept telling her that each of these young men were her son, but they kept telling her differently!   
  
"Momma? Daddy?"  
  
Her mind reeling, Evangeline turned toward that oh so familiar voice, to spy that much beloved face . . . again. Sensory overload. With a sigh, her eyes rolled up . . . and down she went.  
  
************  
  
Buddy had come rushing into the waiting area at a pace just under a run. 'Oh, Lord!' he thought to himself. 'Please let me get there before Momma does some . . . thing . . .'  
  
He had seen Lois sitting on one of the armchairs, a cup of hot coffee in one hand, watching as his mother realized her mistake . . . for the third time. Jake was standing off to one side, evidently trying to explain everything to Buddy's father. 'Maybe they haven't seen Gary, yet,' he prayed.  
  
"Momma? Daddy?" he said quietly, hoping to avoid a scene. He should've known better.  
  
The look in his mother's eyes was all the warning he needed. That dazed, glassy-eyed look that said it had all been too much, too fast. Leaping forward, Buddy caught her as she slumped over in a dead faint. Clay was there, too, concern written all over his face as they eased her to the floor. The ward clerk, who had seen her collapse, rushed forward with an ammonia capsule. She cracked it under his mother's nose, releasing the acrid fumes. 'Lord!' he thought. 'A few whiffs of that could rouse a dead moose!' It certainly did the trick for his mother.  
  
"B-Beauregard?" she stammered hesitantly. "Y-you are my Beauregard, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes, Momma," he sighed. "But, please, don't call me that in public! It's Buddy, remember?"  
  
With a relieved sigh, she let him help her to her feet, clinging to him for support.   
  
"This has been the most astoundin' day," she murmured. "I came rushin' up heah because my boy tells me he might not be home foah Christmas, and what do I find? He's in the hospital, but that's not him. He comes walkin' in, but that's still not him. Then he's got a broken arm, but that's not him either! How many of you did you find, boy?"  
  
Confused, Buddy looked to Lois for clarification.  
  
"We've just been getting acquainted while the nurses give Gary his bath," Lois explained. "He's had a slight . . . setback," she added, careful not to glance at Mrs. Jackson. "Then the others started trailing in and . . ." She held her palms up in a helpless shrug.  
  
Buddy winced as his mind filled in the blanks. "She hugged him," he sighed, "didn't she? One her world famous clinches. Momma, Daddy, why couldn't ya'll just wait for me?"  
  
"Why, Beauregard!" Mrs. Jackson simpered. "When you called to say you weren't comin', of course we had to come right away!"  
  
With a sigh, Buddy wrapped his arms around her and pulled the tiny woman into a warm embrace.   
  
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "It's just that Gary's been through so much. I wanted to warn you about what kinda shape he was in." Relaxing his hold, Buddy leaned back a little to look his adoptive mother in the eyes. "Did they tell you about the others?"  
  
"What others?" Evangeline asked, brows knit in a puzzled frown.   
  
Buddy gave Lois a questioning look. She just shook her head in reply. Sitting his mother back down beside his father, Buddy gingerly seated himself on one of the chairs opposite them.   
  
"I found my birth family," he told them, trying to keep his voice steady. "Clay, here, is my twin brother. I also have twin half-brothers and two half-sisters. But the people in that wreck weren't my real birth parents. They stole me from my birth-momma the day I was born. Now, I haven't had a chance to check into this yet, but it might mean that I was never legally your son." He held both hands up to quiet their sudden protests. "I said legally!" he reminded them. "In every other way that matters, nothing has changed between us." He reached out and took each of them by the hand. "You raised me, and loved me," he told them. "That's somethin' that cain't be set aside by one crack of the gavel. Regardless of what the law might say, I'm still your son."  
  
Impulsively, the elderly couple stood and pulled their son into another rib-cracking embrace. "Air!" Buddy gasped after a few seconds. "G-gotta b-breathe!"  
  
Laughing, they stepped back, only to have Buddy give them each a quick peck on the cheek. Taking advantage of the relaxed atmosphere, he told them about finding Gary, Clay, and Jake. He saw no sense in bringing up the other two, Kyle Chandler and Peter Blessing. Buddy did bring them up-to-date on the events since that first auspicious meeting. By the time he was finished, the nurses had emerged from giving Gary his bath.   
  
"We had to sedate him, I'm afraid," one nurse reported. "He was in a great deal of pain."  
  
"How long before I can see him?" Lois asked. She didn't have to ask why he was hurting, but it took a great deal of effort not to give Mrs. Jackson a scathing glare.  
  
"It should wear off in about an hour or so," the nurse assured her. "Why don't you all take a little break and come back after lunch?"  
  
Disappointed, Lois still managed a gracious smile and a 'thank you,' as she led the exodus back to the elevator. Behind her, she could hear Buddy talking to his parents. Ever since learning his real name, she had wondered how long it would be before he broached this particular subject.  
  
"There's just one more thing I need to mention," he told them, sounding a little uncertain. "I was thinkin' that, since my birth-momma went to all the trouble of comin' up with a name for me . . . would you mind if . . .I mean, I know how fond you were of your great-granddaddy, but . . ."  
  
"You nevah did like that name," Nathaniel sighed, "did you, son?"  
  
"It's a proud name, Daddy," Buddy hastened to assure him. "And I was thrilled to hear all the stories about him, but that name got the livin' crap beat outta me for years! Why do you think I keep insistin' on bein' called Buddy? And I still wanna be called that. It's comfortable and I'm used to it. Like a pair of old slippers. I just want the name my birth-momma chose for me to be my legal name. Jeffrey Steven Jackson. I-it's just . . . this is the only way I have left to feel close to her. Can you understand that?"  
  
"Of course we can," Evangeline sighed, snuggling closer to her son. "Jeffrey Steven," she mused. "My oldest brother is named Jeffrey. And yoah granddaddy was Steven James Jackson. I think they'd be thrilled. Don't you, Nathaniel?"  
  
There was no mistaking the edge in her voice. "Of course they would, deah" Mr. Jackson quickly agreed. Now, if he could just convince his father!  
  
****************  
  
An hour later, Lois returned alone. Buddy had gone back to the hotel to get his parents checked in. Clay and Jake were at the local precinct, going over their statements with Ranger Walker and Alex Cahill. Peter Cain and his father were having lunch with Sammo Law. That left Lois with a little more time, alone, with her son. Pausing to give a gentle tap on his door, she eased it open just a crack. Peering cautiously around the edge, she saw Gary sitting up in the bed. That book with his great-great-grandparents' picture on the cover lay open on his lap as he gazed solemnly out the window.  
  
"C'mon in, Mom," he murmured. "I'm awake."  
  
"Are you feeling any better, sweetie?" Lois Hobson asked as she eased into the room. "How's your back?"  
  
"Still sore," he told her, his mouth flickering into a tired smile. "Too doped up to care, though. Gotta watch that." Looking down at the book, his smile faded. "They loved each other so much, and they died so far apart. So . . . alone."  
  
"That was a long time ago, honey," she replied softly, taking a seat by his bed. "Almost five generations have passed since then."  
  
Gary shook his head slowly as he ran a hand over the features of his ancestors. "Not for them," he murmured softly. "Or for me. That was more than a dream, Mom. I lived the last few days of his life. I . . . I felt . . . everything. His loneliness, the empty ache inside of him at being separated from the people he loved more than life itself. The pain of his injuries was nothing next to the pain in his heart!" Tears trickled down his pale cheeks as he heaved a weary sigh. "Dying was . . . it should've been a release. F-from the sadness, and the emptiness, but it wasn't. It was just the beginning of an endless torment when he couldn't find the others on 'the other side.' He'd hoped that, someday, they'd all be together again. He wanted Canfield to tell them that. And that he loved them with all his heart."  
  
"I'm sure they knew that, Gary," Lois began.  
  
"No," Gary sighed. "They didn't. Don't you remember how your grandmother shut you out when you told her what you wanted to name your first child? She loathed him, Mom. Hated him so much she tried to wipe his memory completely out of her mind. The others probably felt the same way. He deserved better than that, Mom. He was a hero in every sense of the word. He could've said no to that Ranger, but the idea of some outlaw murdering children . . . well, it sickened him. Especially when he had no idea what kind of torment his own children were being subjected to. Or if they were even still alive. How could he possibly have said no and still lived with himself?"  
  
"Could you have said no?" his mother asked. "Knowing how it ended, would you still do it?"  
  
Gary took his time answering her pointed question. Could he have endured the torment meted out to his ancestor? True, he had just survived a similar experience, but he hadn't been quite so alone as Captain Chandler. He'd had friends and family actively looking for him, caring for him. His great-great-grandfather had paused in a search that meant everything to him in order to make things safe for people he didn't even know. Could he have done the same?  
  
"I-I honestly don't know, Mom," he sighed, unable to meet her eyes. "Knowing that I could die is one thing. Knowing that I will die if I do something . . . that's something else. Something like that . . . I think it'd be worth the risk. I just don't know if I have that kind of courage." He failed to mention that he had already faced that situation once. At a time that he was not sure he wanted to continue living. To his mind, that made it an entirely different matter.  
  
Smiling sadly, Lois stood to pull her son into a careful embrace. "It took more courage to answer that question honestly," she told him, "than it would to face those guns. Anyone can say 'Of course! How can you even ask?' Then, when it comes time to put up or shut up, they find all kinds of excuses why they can't. You don't make excuses. You just say 'We'll see.' Trouble is, you always seem to find your courage just in time to get seriously hurt. I don't want to outlive you, sweetie," she added. "I want you to sing sad songs at my funeral."  
  
Pulling back a little, Gary gave his mom a doubtful look. "You really don't want me to sing, do you?" he asked. "The last time, someone started shooting. Remember?"  
  
"Ooo, good point," Lois teased. "Maybe you should just leave the singing to the choir."  
  
***************  
  
Some time later, they heard a tentative knock on the door. Turning, Lois saw the woman who had saved her son's life in the aftermath of that ill-fated concert. She was peering cautiously around the edge of the portal.  
  
"Just wanted to be sure you were awake, sweetie," Polly murmured as she eased in. Stepping closer to the bed, she eyed her young friend with concern. "They said they had to sedate you earlier. You okay, now?"  
  
"Just fine," Gary assured her. "Still a little woozy from the medication, though. Don't expect all my answers to make sense for a while."  
  
Polly turned her head for a moment, biting back the obvious reply. She was determined to behave while his mother was present. Taking a seat next to Mrs. Hobson, she gave Gary's hand a gentle pat. Noticing the book in his hands, her mischievous grin turned into a worried frown.  
  
"You still broodin' over what happened to your great-great-granddaddy?" she asked. "And that missin' saddle?"  
  
"Some," Gary admitted. "I know the odds of that particular saddle surviving more than a hundred and thirty years i-is remote at best. Still . . ."  
  
"You want to look for it," Polly nodded in understanding. "I may know some people back home that can help. They're part of one of those Civil War Re-creational societies. Perhaps Ranger Walker knows of something similar in Texas."  
  
"Or Mr. Cain and his son," Lois murmured. "He seems to know about old things. Maybe they can help."  
  
Gary nodded thoughtfully, suddenly seeing that it might not be such an impossible task after all. Mention of the Cain's, however, reminded him of something the younger Shaolin had mentioned to him just the day before.  
  
"Speaking of Peter," he mused, "he said that you . . . that you could . . . feel . . . wh-what they were . . . I mean the . . . Y-you were the first one out the door when they . . . when they took me."  
  
Polly squirmed uncomfortably as Gary hit on the one subject she was loathe to discuss. It had never been easy for her to even admit to such a 'gift.' Nor had it ever kicked in as strong as it had between her and the young barkeep.  
  
"It's a . . . somethin' I've had since I was a child," she shrugged. "I always knew when my sister or brothers were in trouble. Physical danger, that is. My sister was in other sorts of trouble all the time. And boys . . . never mind. Anyway, as I left home, I found that this . . . gift, if you want to call it that, extended to certain people I liked. Close friends and such."  
  
"Boyfriends?" Lois teased.  
  
"Never had one o' those," Polly shrugged. "Girlfriends, either. Not in that sense, anyway. It was just something that . . . well, never happened. And I don't go in for the current attitude toward casual . . . relationships. I'm an old-fashioned kinda gal. Anyway, as I was sayin', this . . . talent only kicked in with certain people. A girl friend in the school I attended for radiology, a young man I tutored in physics, a few others since then. But that was as far as it went. Just a vague . . . feeling that they needed my help. Then you come along. That first time Jaggs's men worked you over, I knew you were in trouble, and a general idea of where to find you. Just like at the concert that night. But I could only feel a tiny glimmer of the pain you had to endure. I guess bein' in such close proximity over the last several days has strengthened the . . . the link because I could feel it every time the sorry sonova . . . every time he hit you. And it riled me to no end. I guess I kinda took it out on the two we caught."  
  
"I'll say!" Gary chuckled. "Walker said they couldn't talk fast enough once you got to work. Did you really threaten to pull that guy's beard out?"  
  
"I didn't threaten anything," Polly replied grimly. "You were being tortured by a man who had every intention of killing you, sweetie. It was a promise of what I would do if they didn't talk. I just figured we didn't have time to pussyfoot around. As it turned out, we barely got there in time. When I saw you go over that bluff . . ." She paused as a shudder ran through her stocky frame. "I had no idea what was on the other side. Clay had the prior claim on Neff, so I had to settle for turning one of the others into a soprano. He'll be singing in the boys choir for a while."  
  
"Good for you!" Lois laughed. "I'm glad you were there to do the honors. Are you still . . . linked with the others you mentioned? The friend from school and that young man?"  
  
Polly shook her head sadly. "My friend died of ovarian cancer before we ever graduated," she sighed. "The young man, once he got married and started a family, it began to fade. I think it's still there, though. I felt a sharp pain in my left leg a few years ago, and a strong urge to call him. Turned out he'd been in a car accident that same day and was in surgery to get a pin put into his left tibia. His wife was actually glad to hear from me. They didn't have any other family close by and talkin' to me distracted her from worryin' so much."  
  
"S-so that means," Gary stammered uncertainly, "that you and I . . .?"  
  
"Try not to get hurt so much in the future," Polly responded with a tired smile. "I'm gettin' old, sweetie, and tend to get a little cranky when I'm in pain. Besides, it's hard to tell the difference between you and arthritis, sometimes."  
  
***********  
  
The day finally came when the doctor pronounced Gary well enough to be released from the hospital. His right arm was still supported by a sling, rather than a shoulder immobilizer, due to the damage to his back and ribs. The doctor, who had settled for an in-depth family history and a copy of the DNA results obtained by the Medical Examiner, cautioned his patient extensively about keeping the stitches clean and dry, and seeing his regular doctor back home.  
  
"Barring complications," he added, "you should be able to have them all removed in less than a week."  
  
"Good," Gary murmured. He held still as Buddy eased the sleeve of a clean cotton t-shirt over his injured arm. Gingerly, he put his left arm through the other sleeve, then let his cousin work it over his head and down to cover the network of stitches that crisscrossed his back. This was finally accomplished with a minimum of hissing and only a few muffled curses. Then came the outer shirt, his favorite blue flannel one. Last was the sling for his right arm, which he had been assured would only be necessary for another week or so. By the time he was dressed, Gary had to sit back down, exhausted. If just getting dressed was such a chore, how would he manage the Paper? With a murmured 'thank you,' to his cousin, Gary looked up at the doctor. "You've all been very kind," he said. "Thank you. Any word on . . . on the man who did this?"  
  
"In spite of his injuries," the doctor sighed, "the state is going ahead with the execution in two weeks. That was all the delay they would grant him. Under normal circumstances, I'd be one of the first to raise a protest. Once word got out as to what he had done to you, however, even his so-called 'friends' are steering clear of him. The man is worse than an animal. He chooses to be evil! He's been gloating to anyone with the stomach to listen that he had you begging and pleading like a whipped cur."  
  
"That's a lie," Gary responded, amazed that his voice was so calm. "I screamed, cursed, and passed out a lot, but I never begged." He closed his eyes as a shudder ran through his battered frame. "It was close, though. Real close."  
  
With a sigh, Gary let Buddy help him to his feet. It was almost time to go. His mother and Peter Cain would be flying back with him, as would Jake and Polly . The latter two had jobs to get back to. Still . . .  
  
"I want to see him," Gary murmured as they stepped into the hall. Jake, Polly, Lois, the Jacksons and Clay all turned to him with puzzled looks of concern. Only the two Shaolin and the Ranger seemed to know what he meant. "Neff," he elaborated. "I want to see him. Talk to him."  
  
"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" Lois asked uncertainly. She stepped forward, taking Gary's good hand in hers and looking up into his mud puddle green eyes. Eyes that turned to lock onto hers; full of pain, fear, and determination. "After what he did to you?"  
  
"That's why, Mom," Gary told her. "I have to face him or have this haunting me for the rest of my life. I . . . I have to look him in the eye and let him know he hasn't broken me. Beaten, yes. Within an inch of my life. Broken, not in this lifetime. D-do you understand? If I don't . . . then he will break me, even from the grave. I-I'll see that face in my nightmares, feel . . . feel the chains . . ." He glanced away with a sigh. "I have to know that I can face him, or I'll be running away from this . . . forever."  
  
"He was moved to the prison infirmary two days ago," Walker told him kindly. "His jaw is wired back together and he's able to talk so you can understand him, but Clay worked him over pretty good. His face is a mess."  
  
"Doesn't matter," Gary replied grimly. "I still want to see him."  
  
Impulsively, Lois stood on tip-toe to plant a quick kiss on her son's cheek. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she murmured, "And you were worried about finding your courage."  
  
**********  
  
It took some persuasion on Walker's part, and some assistance from his fiancée, but permission was finally given for Gary and Clay to see the doomed man the next day. Neff had been moved into his cell on death row. Less than two weeks remained until he was to be taken to a room with a bed, video cameras, and a bank of equipment. He would be strapped to the bed, an IV would be started, and he would receive a series of injections. For the killer, it would be like going to sleep. Or so Gary had been told.   
  
Standing there, outside the cell, he had his doubts. In his memory, and his nightmares, he could still feel the way another killer's heart had beat against his. The way it had raced in fear as he felt Death's icy touch. The way it had stuttered . . . and stopped. No, Gary was already much too familiar with the mechanics of death to think it would be as humane as some claimed. He stood there, silently staring at the battered countenance of the man who had tormented him.  
  
"Whaddaya want?" Neff growled as he stared at them through the bars. "Come t' gloat? Well, get your fill, punk," he chuckled. "I'll take your screams to my grave, to keep me warm."  
  
"Where you're going," Gary sighed, "I doubt you'll need them. But you're welcome to them." He turned to his cousin. "I've seen enough. Let's go."  
  
Startled and confused, Neff jumped up and grabbed the bars.  
  
"Wait!" he shouted, halting them in mid turn. "That's it? You just came here to look at me and leave? No questions or curses? Nothing?"  
  
Gary turned back to look at the puzzled killer. "I just needed to know that I could still feel something besides fear and hate," he replied softly. "I look at you, and all I can feel is pity. You've never felt a decent, honest emotion in your life, have you? Pain and rage is all you've ever shown because it's all you know. I don't know what happened to make you this way, Neff, but I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I'm sorry. I wish your life could've been different." Having said that, he turned to lead his equally puzzled cousin away.  
  
"Come back here!" Jaggs Neff shouted, rattling the bars in his fury. "I'm not through with you! Get your f----in' a-- back here! I don't want your f----in' pity! You hear me? Get back here!"  
  
But Gary never looked back or slowed his step. He had his answers. Neff had not managed to beat him after all. Physically, yes. And he would bear the scars from that beating for the rest of his life. Spiritually was another matter. Gary was relieved that he could still feel something akin to sympathy for the creature screaming profanities at them as they passed through the checkpoint and rejoined Peter and Cordell. Glancing over at a silent bank of monitors, he could see Neff still raging at the empty air.  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen him this angry," the guard was saying in awe. "He's actually foaming at the mouth! What did you say to him?"  
  
"Nothing much," Gary murmured. He looked at the others, his face full of sympathy and sorrow. "We'd better hurry or I'll miss my plane."  
  
"But, what did you say?" the guard asked again.  
  
"He did the absolute worst thing you can do to someone like Jaggs," Clay told them, fixing his cousin with a speculative, respectful gaze. "He forgave him."  
  
**************  
  
A few hours later, at the airport, Gary and his mom were saying goodbye to the twins. Because of the more stringent security, Buddy and Clay were unable to accompany them to the gate.  
  
"You two drive carefully," Lois cautioned them. "You still have plenty of time before the reunion, so there's no rush."  
  
"Besides," Gary chuckled, "Dad'll have a fit if you wreck the RV before he has a chance to drive it. Where are you going from here?"  
  
"Abilene," Clay replied, giving Lois one more hug. "There's a rodeo up there next week and I'm entered. Buddy's wanted to see me in action again, seein' as how I got scratched from the Finals And Peter's Dad said he's never been to a rodeo before . . ."  
  
"Sorry about that," Gary winced. Clay had been disqualified because of a deep gash he'd received catching the thugs who had attacked Gary in Las Vegas. "Come to think of it, we never got to watch you ride, at all!"  
  
"We'll have to correct that the next time we take one of theses little trips," Clay promised. He looked over to where Peter, Jake, and Polly had already made it through the metal detectors. He chuckled at the face the disgruntled tech made as she pulled off her shoes. "Polly and Jake, too."  
  
"Hey!" Lois exclaimed, giving him a good-natured slap on the shoulder. "What about me? Don't I rate in this little reunion?"  
  
"Sure, Mom," Gary smiled. "We can even let Dad do the driving."  
  
"Rats!" she murmured. "I forgot about that. Someone has to stay behind, don't they?"  
  
"'Fraid so," Gary nodded. "Tell you what, you guys go next time, then I'll take a turn. Deal?"  
  
"Deal," his mom agreed. She waved at their three traveling companions, who were putting their shoes back on. "We really need to go, now, fellas. Buddy, you look after your brother. Clay, ditto. Come back to us safe and sound. Ooo, I can't wait 'til the reunion! We are gonna blow their collective minds!"  
  
"I can hardly wait," Buddy chuckled. "If my agent calls, tell him I'll be callin' in a coupla days an' not to worry."  
  
"Why would he be calling us?" Gary asked suspiciously. His eyes narrowed almost to slits as his cousin refused to meet his gaze. "You guys haven't given up on that record deal, have you." It was not a question.  
  
"He's been after me to work on you," Buddy sighed. "I've tried to tell 'im it was no good, but he's stubborn. It's what makes him such a good agent."  
  
"You and Clay have the same voice," Gary reasoned. "Why don't one of you try singing? Clay wouldn't be the first rodeo star to hit the stage! Or you the first songwriter to record his own songs! Give it a try."  
  
"Sorry, cuz," Buddy chuckled. "We may have the same voice, but we don't have the same 'voice.' if you get my meanin'. My voice keeps breakin', and Clay can't carry a tune in a bucket. Nope. You're the 'talent' in the family, like it or not."  
  
"Definitely 'not,'" Gary murmured to his mother's amusement. He glanced over at the line going through security. There were only a few left ahead of them. "We gotta go, Mom. We don't want them leaving without us."  
  
The twins beat a hasty retreat so that the Hobson's could begin the process of being 'cleared.' They had no problems until it came time for one of the guards to pat them down. The moment his hand touched Gary's back a shock of pain ran through him that almost brought him to his knees! Lois and Polly were there instantly, as were the two men. They quickly explained about Gary's injury, lifting his shirts just enough to show the bandages. Polly gently peeled the lower edge of this back to reveal the stitches. Gary endured all this with quiet stoicism. And gritted teeth. Pale and shaking by the time it was over, he had to let Jake remove his shoes and put them back on once the guards were through with them.   
  
Finally, they were allowed to proceed to their gate just as their flight was called. A few minutes later, Gary sank into his seat with a weary sigh. He had another bad moment when he first leaned back into the leather seats, but the pain eventually eased. Take off, though, was another matter. Jake helped him fasten his seatbelt before taking his own seat across the aisle. Turning his head slightly, Gary gave his mother a hesitant smile.   
  
"I'll be okay," he assured her. "Once we're in the air, it won't be so bad."  
  
"Tell me that without turning white as a sheet," Lois murmured, "and I might believe you. Oh, sweetie! I'm so sorry! We should've let the twins drive us back! I never considered what this would be like for you!"  
  
"Honestly, Mom," Gary told her, "I'm fine. Take off and landing will be the worst. Everything else will be fine."  
  
His prediction proved correct . . . in a way. As the acceleration pushed Gary's back gently, but firmly against the seat, he very quietly passed out from the pain. The rest of the trip he spent stretched out in the first class lounge. He barely uttered a whimper when they loaded him into the ambulance at O'Hare.  
  
************  
  
"I think you've set a new record, this time," Dr. Luca Kovac murmured as he withdrew another suture. "I don't believe I have ever seen so much damage to one person without a war or major disaster being involved. And you were on vacation?"  
  
"Th-that's the way it started out," Gary admitted, trying not to hiss at the odd sensation he felt as each stitch was removed. "The g-guys felt that hssst! um, that I needed a break. Figuratively speaking that is."  
  
The swarthy physician chuckled as he caught the double meaning. "Remind me to keep abreast of your travel plans," he joked, "and to always go the other way. Hold still. This one is stuck to a clot. It may hurt a little."  
  
As Dr. Kovac tugged at the stubborn suture, Gary sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "It did," he grunted. "How many more you gonna take out?"  
  
"Gary," the doctor sighed, "you have more than two hundred very tiny stitches back here, holding closed at least nine very deep gashes. Perhaps you would be more comfortable lying down. You are going to be here for quite some time."  
  
Gary was glad Peter had offered to cover the Paper that day. It was promising to be a long one.  
  
******************  
  
Gary looked at the chart in his hand in satisfied amazement. He had been working on this, with help from his mom and Marissa, ever since they got back. It had given him something to do on those days when he had been hurting too bad to move around much. Jake had managed to pry some information from his family, too. Although the banker had claimed it was like pulling teeth. From a very cranky tiger. With a bad attitude. It had taken time to track them down, but Dusty and Kyle Chandler had also been more than willing to help where they could. Both men had been just as amazed as Gary to learn that they were related. Dusty had been more than a little chagrined to know that he was kin to Buddy Jackson, though. True, the singer no longer bore the man a grudge, but he still found the songwriter to be a little irritating at times. Gary was tempted to reveal Buddy's given name to the singer, but decided against it. Dusty would probably laugh himself sick.  
  
Gary rolled the family tree chart up carefully, inserting it into a mailing tube for safekeeping. He intended to take it to a reputable printer as soon as possible to have copies made. It would cost him a small fortune, but he wanted to hand them out at the family reunion. It clearly showed their lineage beginning with the union of Gary Martin Chandler to Amanda Louise Beaumont. Eventually, he hoped to trace their ancestry even further, but, for now, this was as far as he needed to go.  
  
He looked at the mailing tube, and its contents with understandable pride. This would go a long way toward healing the wound left by Captain Chandler's exclusion from the family history. He couldn't help but think the couple would be pleased.  
  
************  
  
"The reunion is when?" Gary asked incredulously. "You can't be serious! Th-that's on a Monday this year! Don't a lot of these people have kids that have to be in school?"  
  
"Most of them are out by the 16th," Lois shrugged. "The rest decided to take their children out a week early. They're coming a very long way, honey," she reminded him. "Some from as far away as California. You can't expect them to just stop by for one day and fly right back. This is going to be a week long affair."  
  
"But the 20th!" Gary moaned. "Mom, you . . . you know what day that is! Y-you can't expect me to be smiling a-and meeting a bunch o-of strangers with that hanging over me!" He paced restlessly back and forth between his bed and the sofa. "Th-that's the day wh-when the . . . the flashbacks are the worst. Mom, I'll be a basket case all day!"  
  
Lois stepped in front of her son, bringing him up short as she placed both hands on his shoulders. She could feel the tension practically radiating from him like the heat from a furnace, but there was nothing she could do. The plans had all been made by others over her objections.   
  
"It's still over five months away," she reminded him. "You may be able to get a handle on it before then. Please, son. You have to try. You can't go through the rest of your life being afraid of one day!"  
  
Looking away with a sigh and a rapid nod of his head, Gary tried to swallow his doubts. He knew she was right. He had to get control of his fears. Especially as they could eventually interfere with his 'errands.' He was even dreading Christmas this year, although he couldn't say why.  
  
"I-I'll be okay," he sighed. "I will. Honest. It's just . . . things have been so crazy, lately, we still have Marissa's wedding coming up in six weeks, the twins will be up here with the RV in April, I still haven't got a clue where to find that saddle, and . . . and I-I'm beginning to wonder if . . .if I'm not losing my mind. I mean, I-I've been 'possessed' twice now. No séances or trances necessary, except to talk with whoever's taken up residence since the last spirit vacated. I-I need to know if this is gonna be a regular thing or if great-great-grandpa was the last one." He plopped down on the sofa, burying his face in his hands. "I-it's not that I'm not grateful for the chance to help, or that . . . that I wasn't fascinated by the . . . the insight into his life. It's . . . when do I get a life? Why do I have to go around solving everybody else's problems with no time to work on my own?"  
  
***********  
  
Gary burst through the doors of the EL the instant they slid open. His wet shoes still squished as he took the stairs as fast as he dared. It had taken longer than he'd planned to stop the mugging in Grant Park, which had almost made him too late to save the child falling through the ice covering a large pond, which now put him behind on his next errand. One of the older, more historic homes on the Westside was about to burn to the ground, taking its owner and his entire family with it!  
  
Smoke was already pouring out of a window somewhere in the back when Gary came barreling around the corner, almost skidding on the icy sidewalk! His breath was rasping painfully and his lungs were on fire from the frenzied exertion. Hefting the fire extinguisher he had carried all the way from McGinty's, he used it to break open the front door. He burst in on a veritable museum of Civil War memorabilia! Stunned, he froze for a second of open-mouthed amazement.   
  
There were framed photographs that had to date back as far as the early years of the war. Display cases held matched braces of pistols, sabers, rifles, and uniforms. One held an array of medals and insignia of rank. On a short, waist high rail, obviously made as a display stand, was a modestly ornate saddle that, even to Gary's untrained eye, was of excellent quality.  
  
A tinkle of broken glass recalled Gary back to his purpose. He dashed through a rear door, following his nose to the source of the smoke. In a back room, with only one window cracked open for ventilation, Gary found a middle-aged man and two teenaged boys draped over a table upon which lay a couple of old rifles and a set of dueling pistols. A woman and little girl were slumped in a corner. They had evidently been preparing another display when they had all been overcome by the same sickly sweet fumes that were already beginning to affect Gary.   
  
He aimed the fire extinguisher at the smoldering debris in the corner opposite the woman and child, quickly smothering the fire before it could become more than a breathing hazard. He then flung open all the windows, letting the frigid January air clear the smoke and fumes from the room. One by one, he carried or dragged the five victims into the front of the house. The woman and little girl were already stirring by the time Gary had transferred the last of them to safety. Apparently, the fumes weren't poisonous, just soporific.  
  
Exhausted, Gary sank to the floor and rested his head and arms on his knees. His lungs were burning, each breath a fiery torture. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might have inhaled some water when he he'd pulled the little boy from the frozen pond. Running around in twenty degree weather in sopping wet clothing hadn't been such a good idea, either. Now his insides were on fire, and his outside was freezing. Still, he had enough presence of mind to pick up the phone and dial 911 before he was seized with a coughing fit that still had him breathless by the time the ambulance arrived.  
  
The paramedics entered hurriedly, wearing air tanks and facemasks, unsure of what they were dealing with. They started for Gary, who shook his head and pointed to the woman and child.   
  
"Them first," he croaked. "B-be right right behind you."  
  
With a nod, one paramedic scooped up the little girl, while the other lifted the mother onto his shoulders. Gary grabbed one of the boys under his arms and headed for the door. He had to stop twice to get his breath, but he had the teenager stretched out on the lawn, wrapped in a thermal blanket, by the time the last two were rescued. One of the medics tried to get Gary to lie down, intending to work on him first, but he again waved them off. He couldn't refuse, however, when they pressed an oxygen mask over his face. It was so hard to breathe!  
  
A second ambulance arrived, along with another team of medics. In short order, the family was sitting up, explaining what had happened. Apparently, a new solvent they were trying had proven more potent than they had expected, and more subtle. They had all passed out within seconds of each other. The fire was, as yet, unexplained.   
  
"Who who called you?" the father, Charles Sanford, asked as he was being escorted to the second ambulance. His wife and two youngest children were already on their way to the ER.   
  
"Mr. Hobson," the paramedic, Barbara, replied. "Careful, this step is a little icy." She pointed with her chin to the blanket wrapped figure being loaded into a third ambulance.   
  
"He doesn't look in very good shape," Sanford murmured hoarsely. "Is he allergic to the fumes? Or did he inhale the smoke?"  
  
"Smoke, I think," Barb sighed. "We'll know for sure after the doctors check him out."  
  
*********  
  
"You're a lucky man, Mr. Sanford," Dr. Malucci commented with a ready smile. "No lingering effects from those fumes, or the smoke." He checked over the chart in his hands, making a few notes. "We'd like to keep all of you overnight to be sure, but I don't think you'll end up with anything worse than a bad headache."  
  
"Wh-what about . . . the guy who pulled us out," Charles Sanford rasped. "That Mr. Hobson. He looked pretty bad off."  
  
"You mean Gary," the slim blonde physician replied distractedly. He shook his head with a sigh. "He's gonna be with us a little longer, it seems. I'll see that you and your family are given adjoining rooms, sir. When you're feeling better, I'll let you talk with his folks."  
  
"Please," Sanford nodded. "I'd really like a chance to thank him in person, though."  
  
As the young physician turned away, he muttered something that sent a chill through his patient. A chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Charles Sanford could have sworn that the doctor had said, "I hope you get that chance."  
  
***********  
  
Trina Sanford tucked her daughter in before stepping next door to check on her sons. Both beds were empty. Why was she not surprised? Keeping track of those two was making her old before her time! They weren't in the room assigned to her and Charles, either. For that matter, neither was Charles! She covered her face with both hands and heaved a martyred sigh. Men! She had a pretty good idea where they had gone. All she had to do was find out where he was!  
  
"Could you tell me where I might find Mr. Gary Hobson's room?" she asked the ward clerk a moment later. "I think my husband and sons have gone to pay him a visit."  
  
Flashing her an understanding smile, the clerk pulled up the census on her computer. What she saw quickly replaced her smile with a concerned frown.   
  
"I don't think they'll have much success," she remarked dryly. "Mr. Hobson is in ICU. Only immediate family is allowed to see the patients."  
  
"And you think that's going to stop them?"  
  
**********  
  
Sure enough, Trina found them being forcibly escorted from the Unit. Her youngest, Lamont, was the most vocal of the three, loudly proclaiming that they just wanted to 'see the guy!'  
  
"At this moment," the nurse told them quietly, "he won't even know you're there. He's running a very high fever and having difficulty breathing. Just trying to talk would exhaust him."  
  
"You let those other two in," Jeremy, the older son, grumbled.  
  
"They are his parents," was her patient reply. "They've been through something like this on more than one occasion and they play by the rules. When they come out, I'll send them to see you, but you cannot see him until he's out of danger. Have I made myself clear?"  
  
"Can we just peek in at him?" Trina asked, taking pity on her men folk. "We won't try to disturb him, but we don't even know what he looks like. We should know that much, at least, don't you think? I mean, he did save our lives."  
  
The nurse thought it over a moment, then asked them to wait one moment. She disappeared through the door, only to reappear a few minutes later, beckoning them to follow her. She led them to an observation window, which looked in on a grim scene. A petite blonde woman and a man with salt and pepper gray hair were sitting on either side of the bed where a dark-haired man lay. A monitor above the head of his bed quietly counted his heart rate and oxygen levels as he feebly tossed from side to side in a fevered delirium. The woman took a cloth from a basin of water and, after wringing out the excess, used it to bathe the sweat from his flushed features. Even from where she stood, Trina could see the lines of strain around the woman's mouth, and the gleam of tears in her eyes. The man simply looked tired and grim. He murmured something to his wife, laying a comforting hand on her arm as he spoke.  
  
Trina couldn't help but notice how handsome the young man was, even in his current condition. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.  
  
"He looks like that guy in one of your pictures, dad," Jeremy murmured softly. "The one with Averell?"  
  
"Naw," Lamont shook his head dismissively. "You mean the one with Bedford. I definitely remember this guy wearing Rebel gray."  
  
"Un-uh, Union blue," Jeremy insisted stubbornly.   
  
"Gray," Lamont stated, crossing his arms.  
  
"Blue." Jeremy sounded equally positive.  
  
"Gray," Lamont growled.  
  
"That's enough, boys," Charles stated, turning the boys back toward the door of the Unit. "We don't need to start the Civil War all over again. We'll just look at the pictures tomorrow as soon as we get home. Now, let's keep our word, and let the man get his rest. From the look of things, he really needs it."  
  
Trina had to agree. As she followed the three males toward the door, she spared another glance at the feverish patient. In her mind flashed a slide show of some of the pictures in their vast collection. Without actually having the photographs in her hands, she couldn't be sure, but there was a possibility that both boys were right.  
  
**********  
  
The moment they got home, both boys headed straight for the picture gallery. Minutes later, they were comparing the two pictures.   
  
"This is so weird," Lamont murmured, studying first one photograph, then the other. He turned the one he held over to check the history written on the back in a half-faded, spidery scrawl. "Ft. Harker, June 6th 1863. That's in Alabama."  
  
"This one was taken in Greenbriar, Virginia," Jeremy read from his picture. "It's dated two days before, by a different photographer. There's no way it's the same guy! But look at 'em! They could be twins! Does it give names on yours?"  
  
"Let's see," Lamont mused. "Going from left to right . . . Lieutenant Charles Main, out of Georgia."  
  
"This is Lieutenant Gary Chandler, from the Ohio regiment," Jeremy read. "This is super weird!" He walked over to where the saddle rested on its stand. Turning it to the light, he looked closely at the metal plate on the back of the cantle, which was unusually thick for a saddle of that era. "This is mega super weird!" he whispered.  
  
"They could be twins," their father admitted, astonished, still staring at the pictures. "This is incredible! And they could both be the same man who saved us yesterday!"  
  
"Dad," Jeremy spoke up, looking up from his inspection of the saddle. "We have got to find out more about this guy!"  
  
"We will," Charles Sanford murmured. "First thing in the morning, I'm taking these back to the hospital with me. If he's not able to talk, I'll talk to his parents. One way or the other, I'm gonna find out what's going on."  
  
*************  
  
True to his word, Charles Sanford returned to Cook County Hospital the next day, along with his two sons. They were armed with the two pictures and loaded with questions. They found Mr. and Mrs. Hobson, taking a short break in the waiting area. Now that Gary was out of the unit, the nurses had threatened to sedate them if they didn't get some rest. Charles quickly introduced himself and his sons, then got right to the point.  
  
"I hate to disturb you," Charles murmured as he took a seat across from them, "but we've . . . well, we've run across an odd series of coincidences involving your son."  
  
It was hard not to notice the sudden look of wariness that passed between the couple as they turned to face their visitors with bewildered smiles.  
  
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," Lois Hobson replied a little too smoothly.  
  
As Charles Sanford launched into the discovery of the pictures, Jeremy gave his younger brother a gentle nudge in the ribs. Once he had Lamont's attention, he tilted his head toward the door. No one ever accused Lamont of being slow on the uptake. With a quick glance to be sure no one was paying attention to them, both boys slipped through the door and behind a nearby linen cart. They waited until there was only one person at the desk. While Lamont distracted the nurse, Jeremy stole a quick glance at the census printout on her desk. When he had the information they needed, he signaled his younger brother with a jerk of his chin down the hall. As long as they knew they were being observed, the boys moved past their objective. The instant the nurse turned her head, they dashed back and slipped soundlessly through the door to Gary Hobson's room. Objective achieved.  
  
The man they had seen thrashing feverishly in the Unit just two nights before now seemed to be in a little better health. At least he seemed more restful. His breathing did not seem as labored as it had, and his color was a little better although he was still unusually pale, and had a nasal canula feeding him oxygen. At that moment, he was mumbling disjointedly in a semi-doze.   
  
As Lamont watched the door, Jeremy began his interrogation. He set a tiny, micro cassette recorder on the nightstand next to the head of the bed and turned it on before giving the man a gentle shake.  
  
"Mr. Hobson?" Jeremy whispered, slipping into the seat next to the head of the bed. "Gary Hobson?"  
  
"Umm?" Gary murmured drowsily. "Wh-who . . .?"  
  
Jeremy quickly introduced himself and his brother to the semiconscious man. "Mr. Hobson," he went on, "Does the name Charles Main mean anything to you? An ancestor maybe?"  
  
"Dunno," was the half-mumbled response. "S' f'miliar, but . . . dunno. Why?"  
  
"What about Gary Chandler?" Jeremy persisted. "Captain Gary Chandler."  
  
"Good man," Gary murmured in a barely audible voice. "Sad. So sad."  
  
"Why do you say that?" Jeremy asked. "What was so sad about him?"  
  
"Hero," was the barely audible response. "No one . . . no one knew. Died . . . so far from . . . from home. So . . . so alone."  
  
Bit by bit Jeremy coerced the whole story from the semiconscious man. At some point, the boys could never pin down the exact moment, his voice took on an odd tone. He longer talked in the third person, but in the first. Not 'he' did such and such, but 'I' did. He spoke of details that were only to be found in the old diaries that had once held the picture of Chandler and Averell. How Averell had coached the younger officer in how to infiltrate behind enemy lines. Other details, such as how Averell's wife had taken the young Lieutenant's spouse in hand when they were expecting their second child.   
  
"This is awesome!" Lamont murmured breathlessly, so wrapped up in what he was hearing that he forgot he was supposed to be watching the door.  
  
"You boys are in so much trouble," a voice growled behind him, "I don't even want to think about it! I told you that we were not going to disturb Mr. Hobson. Not until he was well enough to handle visitors. You two . . ."  
  
"But, Dad," Jeremy spoke up excitedly, slipping the tape recorder into his pocket, "he's the great great grandson of the guy in the picture with Averell! This is so cool! It's . . . it's like the past coming to life! He knows so much about Captain Chandler! About his family, how he lived, and died! We'd never been able to . . ."  
  
"If you two don't leave this room right now," Sanford told them in a no nonsense tone, "what you won't be able to do is sit down for a week. You are so grounded it's pathetic!"  
  
"But, Dad!" Lamont groaned. "He was about to . . ."  
  
"Get some rest," their father finished, jerking his thumb toward the door. "Now."  
  
With a simultaneous sigh of resignation, the boys headed for the door. When their father used that tone, they knew it was no use arguing. They had lost before they'd started. Jeremy turned to give Gary a half-hearted wave. To his surprise, Gary returned that gesture with an understanding smile.   
  
"S'okay," the patient murmured. "They weren't bothering me." His voice seemed stronger than it had a moment before, but he was obviously not out of the woods just yet. "They just caught me sorta . . . in between"  
  
"Gary's doing much better than he was last night," Bernie assured them. "The docs say he should be able to go home in a few days, if all goes well. Another week of taking it easy, he'll be as good as new."  
  
"Like that's gonna happen!" Lois snorted daintily. "Between the bar and . . . and everything, he won't have time to 'take it easy.' What with the plans for the reunion in May, the 'Family Tree' he's been working on for the past month, and ironing out the details on that foundation they've started, it's no wonder this hit him so hard! He's even been pitching in to help with Marissa's wedding arrangements! 'Take it easy,' my foot!"  
  
She was already by his side, pressing the back of her fingers to his pale cheek and adjusting his covers. Evidently, she was satisfied with his appearance, flashing him a relieved smile as she took the seat Jeremy had just vacated. Gary waved a hand to indicate a couple of chairs on the other side of the bed.  
  
"Please?" he murmured softly. "M-maybe you can help me with something."  
  
"If we can," Charles replied, sliding into one of the chairs. "We owe you a lot more than a few answers, though."  
  
"You just don't know how important this is to me," Gary assured him. "Y-you guys are sorta . . . sorta experts on the Civil War 'n' that stuff. I s-saw some of your collection. I . . . w-we've been looking for something that belonged to Captain Chandler. A saddle with a-a dedication plate on the cantle. I w-was wondering if . . . if you'd ever run across anything like that?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Charles murmured thoughtfully, shooting his two sons a speculative glance, "I have one that fits that description. You may've seen it in my front room the other day."  
  
"I-I did," Gary nodded, a hopeful gleam in his red-rimmed eyes. "Th-there wasn't time for a-a closer look, though, under . . . under the circumstances." His tone clearly said that he'd had more important things to attend to at the time. "Do . . . do you think I could just . . . just get a closer look at it? Or would you be willing to . . . to sell it? Y-you can name your price and I-I'll pay it! It's just . . . I can't even b-begin to tell you how important this is! Please?"  
  
Sanford looked up to meet the excited gazes of his two sons. Something passed between the three of them, one of those flashes of communication that can only happen in a closely-knit family, and he knew they were all in agreement. Wordlessly, he fished out his car keys and tossed them to his oldest son. "Drive careful," was all he said.  
  
"We'll be right back," Jeremy assured him. He and his brother practically flew from the room.  
  
Gary spent the intervening time learning all he could about how the saddle had come to be in the Sanford collection. They had picked it up a little over three years before at an estate auction. The previous owner had been an avid collector of unique tack and harnessing, keeping everything in excellent repair. The modestly ornamented saddle had been the pride of his collection.   
  
"It's really remarkable workmanship," Charles Sanford continued. "Especially for the times. What's always puzzled me is, why are the seat and the cantle so thick? Yet, it's not much heavier than a regular saddle of that time. It's almost like it's hollow, but saddles aren't made that way. They have to be solid to support the weight of the rider and stand up to the abuses of the trail."  
  
"This one is special," Lois remarked mysteriously. "From what little we were able to learn, it was a gift from the men of his unit. It was in gratitude for leading them out of a prison camp behind enemy lines. Evidently, he risked his life, and was badly wounded for his actions. As a result, he was recaptured later, but never revealed where his men were hiding. They were a small unit of green, inexperienced boys. Before being conscripted, most of them had never fired a rifle at anything more hostile than wild game. Captain Chandler wasn't much older, himself, but he took his rank and responsibility very seriously," she added, a note of pride in her voice. "Anyway, he spent the next few months in a hospital, recovering from his injuries and an illness of some kind. By the time he was pronounced fit for duty, the war was over. In gratitude for what he had gone through for them, his men had that saddle specially made by one of the finest harness makers they could find, giving it to him on the day he was released."  
  
"That jibes pretty well with one of the diaries we have that mention him by name," Sanford nodded. "We've been trying to piece together something of his life ever since we first heard of him. You see, I've always tried to look at the war, not just from a strategic view, but through the eyes of the men and women most closely involved. The ones that had to bear the day-to-day grind of just staying alive. The more we learned about Chandler, the more intrigued we became. He just didn't seem the type to be a career soldier. He took a personal interest in the lives of his subordinates, often going to bat for them if they got into trouble. We've only been able to find a couple of his diaries, and they dealt mostly with someone he was searching for about six years after the war."  
  
Charles Sanford looked up as the two boys returned with their bulky burden. Anxiously, Gary levered himself up straighter in bed as they sat the jet black, silver trimmed saddle on his tray table and slid it before him.  
  
"We owe you a lot more than this," Sanford told him solemnly. "You saved my home, my collection and, more importantly, my family. If there's ever anything else you need . . ."  
  
But Gary wasn't listening. He was already turning the saddle so that he could read the gleaming silver plate on the back of the cantle. It had evidently been polished many times, as some of the engraving had worn down to illegibility.  
  
"This is it!" he murmured excitedly. "This is . . . 'Presented this day, April 12th 1865, to Capt. Gary M. Chandler, in deepest gratitude for his courage and bravery against overwhelming odds, and for our very lives.' I can't make out this last part, but it looks like something 'Ohio Regiment.' This is . . ." He paused, trying to smother a ragged cough before he continued. "I can't let you just give this to me!" he added hoarsely. "This is . . . It's priceless! To me, anyway."  
  
"Nothing is priceless," Sanford shrugged, looking over at his sons. "Except what you risked for us. My whole collection, the work of a lifetime, wouldn't have meant a thing if I'd lost even one of my family. That's a debt that I'll never be able to repay."  
  
"Thank you," Bernie said. "I have to tell you that I'm only on the fringes of all this. Gary and Lois got started on this kick while he was in a hospital in, what was it? Lubbock? Yeah, Lubbock, Texas. He's been obsessed with finding this saddle ever since they got back last month."  
  
"Not just me," Gary murmured, his trembling hands probing around the plate. "He wanted me to find this. A secret compartment, or something. I just have to find . . . here!" He depressed a concealed catch and the plate popped forward a scant millimeter. Casting his mom a grin of triumph, Gary pried at the panel with a fingernail, pulling it the rest of the way open.   
  
"Whoa!" Lamont said breathlessly. "Mega super cool! To the max! A secret compartment. James West stuff, for sure!"  
  
Gary flashed him an excited grin before turning back to his task. Inside, there seemed to a thick mass of cotton or wool filling the tiny opening so completely that nothing else could possibly be in there. Gary gently plucked away at this padding until he could see the edge of what looked like a flat box less than an inch deep and about six inches wide.   
  
So near his goal, Gary found that his hands wouldn't quit shaking. He wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his gown before working the fingers of one hand into the narrow opening to work the box loose. When he at last had the prize free of its confinement, Gary held it a moment, caressing the dark wood reverently, before giving it to his mother.  
  
"Don't you want to open it?" she asked in a near whisper. "I mean, you've been drug through the ringer for this."  
  
"You're mixing metaphors again, Mom," Gary rasped, a tiny grin flickering across his weary features. "M-my hands are shakin' too bad. I'm afraid I'll drop it."  
  
"Oh," Lois murmured in understanding. Turning the slim container in her hands, she looked for the seam dividing top and bottom. Wiggling a nail into the almost invisible slit, she pried the two halves apart. These she held out to her son without looking inside.  
  
"He was your ancestor, too," Gary said, looking from the box to her face uncertainly.  
  
"You were the one he talked to," Lois gently reminded him. "And you were the one who almost died at the hands of that monster, Jaggs Neff. You've earned the right, son." She held the pieces out to him again. "Go ahead. Look inside."  
  
Wordlessly, Gary took the box, his hands shaking as much with eagerness as illness. He laid the top of the box aside without another glance. In the bottom half lay a strip of ribbon and an ornate bronze star. He stared at it as if he held the Holy Grail. Licking suddenly dry lips, he handed the box to Sanford.  
  
"Wh-what kinda medal . . . is that?" he asked. "C-can you tell?"  
  
"It's a Congressional Medal of Honor," Sanford murmured in awe. "For gallantry above and beyond the call. A lot of these were given out during the Civil War, but they weren't given lightly."  
  
"How many were pinned on by President Lincoln himself," Lamont muttered softly, staring inside the lid of the box. His voice held a soft note of awe and reverence, as he handed the lid to his dad.  
  
Sanford looked at the object inside the cover and his face lost all its color. For a moment, he even forgot to breathe. This time, his hand was the one trembling as he carefully plucked a black and white photograph from inside and held it up for inspection. It clearly showed Captain Gary Chandler standing at attention, his left arm still in a sling, as a tall, angular man with a thick shock of dark hair and a dark beard pinned something onto the breast of his uniform.   
  
"Oh, my God," Sanford whispered. "It is Lincoln! This is incredible!" He turned the picture over to read aloud the notation on the back. "Jeremy, call the doctors. I'm about to have a heart attack. I can't believe we've had a genuine Matthew Brady photograph of President Abraham Lincoln in our possession for the last three years, and didn't know it." He squinted his eyes to peer a little closer at the figures in the photo. For a moment, it looked as if he truly were having a heart attack!  
He handed the prize back to his sons, wordlessly pointing to something in the background.  
  
"What is it?" Lois asked. "Is it a fake?"  
  
"No," Sanford quickly assured her in a strained squeak. "N-not a fake. OhmiGod! Um, look at the wall behind Captain Chandler. Th-there's a calendar that clearly . . . Hoo boy! It, um, it clearly shows the year and the date this picture was taken."  
  
Lois took the photo from the two boys, who now looked a little green. As she found the spot Mr. Sanford had described, and read the date, her eyes grew wide in shock. Bernie's face took on a similar look of stunned amazement as he, too, caught the significance of the date. Finally, the photo was placed into Gary's hands.  
  
At first, all he had eyes for were the figures making up the subject of the photograph. Three men. President Lincoln in a three-quarter profile in the act of pinning what appeared to be a medal onto his great-great grandsire's chest. Next to, and slightly behind President Lincoln, was a general that Gary couldn't identify. Finally, he spotted the calendar in question . . . and understood why Charles Sanford had gone into shock.  
  
"April 14th," Gary rasped hoarsely, "1865. The day he was assassinated. The same . . . same date that was on the letter. A-a letter of commendation. She said they were given to him . . . together. That . . . I can't keep this," he said in a strained whisper, quickly handing the picture back to the collector. "M-make me a-a copy, please, a-and you keep this. Take care of it. No way can I rob you of s-something this . . . I-I can't . . ."  
  
"You can't refuse it," Sanford replied with a wistful sigh. "This rightfully belongs to your family, Gary. It's a part of your history. Almost all the photographs we have are reproductions. Something this . . . this priceless . . . I dunno."  
  
"W-we don't have the . . . the means to take care of . . . of something this . . . fragile," Gary replied hesitantly. "This belongs in a museum." He bit his lip as he tried to force his tired mind to work. "The American History Museum? W-would they have the means to . . . to preserve this properly? A-and to make copies? I-I've been having copies made of everything we've found so far. T-to give out at the reunion. He's a piece of our family history that was . . . He wasn't just forgotten. He was ostracized! And it w-wasn't even his fault!"  
  
"Calm down, sweetie," Lois cautioned. "You'll work yourself into a relapse. Your father and I will take care of everything. You just work on getting better." She lowered the head of the bed against his protests that he wasn't tired. Even the Sanford boys could see that he was near exhaustion. Lois forced her son to lie back, pulling the covers back up almost to his shoulders.  
  
"I'm not a child, Mom," he protested weakly. "I'm thirty-six years old!"  
  
"You're also less than a day out of Intensive care," she reminded him. "Go back to sleep, hon. I'll call the museum and see what sort of accommodation we can come to about housing our little collection. And of getting about a hundred or so copies made," she added hurriedly as he started to say something.   
  
Gary sank back with a sigh of defeat. "I guess you're right," he murmured. He rubbed a hand over his face as a wave of fatigue washed over him. "You, um, you'll . . . never mind. I can't remember what I wanted to say. Oh! The twins. Th-they need to know that we found it. And Jake. Call Jake first. He'll know how to get in touch with them. A-and . . ."  
  
"I'll take care of it," Lois assured him. "Sleep! Don't make me go looking for that nurse with the ice water sponge bath."  
  
Gary flashed her a tired grin. "That would be a real eye-opener," he chuckled. "I'll be good, Mom. I promise."  
  
A moment later, she and Bernie were escorting the Sanfords out of the room, when Lois spotted a familiar figure strolling down the hall toward them.   
  
"Peter!" Lois said with a welcome smile. "How'd everything go?"  
  
"Pretty smooth," the young Shaolin shrugged. "How's he doing today? No problems?"  
  
"He still has trouble breathing," Bernie replied. "And he tires easy, but he's feeling a lot better than yesterday." He quickly introduced Mr. Sanford and his sons. " Any word from your dad and the twins?"  
  
"They made a detour for a rodeo in Albuquerque," he chuckled. "Then Buddy has to meet with his agent in Oklahoma City. That guy still wants to sign Gary to a record deal. Was he really that good?"  
  
"I have no idea." Bernie grinned. "He wouldn't let us anywhere near the place. Claimed it was too dangerous. Everyone we talked to said he was doing great 'til the shooting started."  
  
Charles Sanford and his sons listened in with growing confusion. Lois, seeing their puzzled looks, explained about the ill-fated concert Gary had participated in a few months before. She left out all of the more . . . bizarre circumstances, which didn't detract from the main event at all as far as the boys were concerned.  
  
"And you thought all the action was in rock 'n' roll," their father chuckled.   
  
As the boys excitedly plied Lois and Bernie for details of the events leading up to that disastrous concert, Charles Sanford noticed a very familiar face approaching them down the hall. His eyes widened as he looked from the door to the other man and back again. Stunned, he tapped Jeremy on the shoulder.  
  
"Yes, Dad?" the teenager asked, turning to face his father. As he did, he too spotted the man coming down the hall wearing a dark business suit and striped tie. "Oh, my Lord," he whispered. He nudged his brother in the ribs.  
  
By that time, the newcomer had gotten within speaking distance, so that when Lamont turned, he was face to face with Jake Evans.  
  
"Hi," the banker greeted him with a ready smile before turning to Lois and Bernie. "How's he doing today? Is he up to having visitors?"  
  
"He's resting right now," Lois replied, "but I think he'll want to see you. He's got something he wants to show you. But first, let me introduce you to Charles Sanford and his sons, Jeremy and Lamont. This is one of Gary's cousins, Jake Evans."  
  
"Pleased to meet you," Jake returned, shaking their hands. "Have you known Gary long?"  
  
"W-we just met the other day," Charles murmured distractedly. "My God! The resemblance is incredible! This is absolutely amazing!"  
  
"Strictly Twilight Zone!" Jeremy agreed. "You guys could be clones!"  
  
"I'm afraid Gary has a few more scars than I do," Jake chuckled. He glanced at Lois as he tilted his head toward the door to Gary's room. "Are you sure it's okay?"  
  
"He'll be very disappointed if you don't," she told him. "Go ahead. You, too, Peter. He'll be thrilled to see you both. Just don't keep him up long. He's had an exhausting day."  
  
"Just in and out," Jake promised. He nodded at the Sanfords as he put his hand to the door. "Nice to've met you," he said with an infectious smile.   
  
Everyone waited breathlessly, anxious to hear their reaction to Gary's recent acquisitions. They were rewarded with a muffled cry of, "Great God! Do you know what you have here?"  
  
Lois stepped back with a satisfied smile. "I think that went rather well," she told her husband. "Don't you? It's about time, Gary got to share something good with his new family."  
  
"Why do I get the feeling," Charles Sanford murmured, "that what we've heard so far is nothing compared to what you haven't told us?"  
  
**********  
  
Gary was finally released a few days later with instructions to remain in bed for at least another three days, and to ease back into his daily routine slowly.  
  
"Don't rush things," the doctor told him. "Stress weakens the immune system and can lead you right into a relapse. And pneumonia is usually harder to shake under those circumstances."  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Gary sighed as he buttoned his shirt. "That's easier said than done, though. There's that reunion coming up in a few months. I've been given the joyous assignment of reserving one of the parks, and catering the picnic lunch, and entertainment, etc. Before that is my partner's wedding, where I'm giving the bride away. So I'm closely involved with those arrangements. And there's . . ."  
  
"Whoa!" the doctor chuckled. "Slow down! No wonder you got sick! Do you ever sleep?"  
  
Caught off guard, Gary had to pause as his mind shifted gears. "Sleep?" he mused, only half jokingly. "Sleep. Ya know, I think I've heard that word before, but I'm not sure what it means. Let me look it up and I'll get back to you."  
  
"Well, get busy on that research, then," the doctor smiled grimly, "and make it top priority. Otherwise you will be 'getting back' to me. In an ambulance."  
  
Gary winced as his attempt at humor came back at him. "I, um, I get your point," he murmured. "I'll be good."  
  
************  
  
"I don't see how you did it alone for so long," Peter sighed as he plopped down next to Gary on the sofa a few days later. "That damned thing changes almost constantly. Two traffic fatalities turned into four because I stopped the wrong car, and had to track the other bozo down to stop him. I stopped the bank robbery but almost got the guard killed. Kermit kept the skateboarder from falling into the manhole, but a lady on inline skates almost took his place. Do you have eyes in the back of your head or something? How do you keep all this stuff straight?"  
  
"I-I just do," Gary shrugged. "The choices aren't always easy, and I don't always make the right one, either. I've always just . . . done the best I could. People still die sometimes, in spite of my best efforts. I-it took me a while, but I've had to learn to accept that and move on. I can't quit just because it's hard, or no matter how much it hurts to fail. And it hurts," he sighed. "Oh, man. It hurts."  
  
***********  
  
January finally turned into February, and preparations for Marissa and Emmett's wedding began to heat up. Gary had the catering handled by McGinty's head chef, Dave. To have contracted it out would've been an insult to a loyal employee. Lois got together with Marissa's and Emmett's mothers to decide on the final details in the decorations, while Gary handled the purchase of the floral arrangements and renting the reception hall. The pastor of Marissa's church was more than happy to perform the ceremony. The finishing touch, though, was when Carlos baked a beautiful three tiered wedding cake decorated in the same color scheme as the decorations.  
  
At last, the big day arrived.  
  
************  
  
Marissa smoothed the front of her gown with shaky hands. For the first time in ages, she wished that she could see. Just to be sure it looked as everyone told her it did. She ran her hands over the gold necklace that lay flat against her throat. It was a wedding gift from Gary. The something 'new.' Lois had provided a pair of antique gold earrings. Something 'borrowed' and 'old.' Her own mother had fastened a sapphire bracelet around her trembling arm. The 'blue.' She was ready. So why was she still shaking?  
  
"You look beautiful, dear," Mrs. Clark sniffed. "Too lovely for words." Wiping a tear from her eye, she glanced at her watch. "It's almost time. I'd better take my seat."  
  
"Wait, Momma," Marissa pleaded, clutching her mother's arm. "I-I'm not ready! S-something's missing? Gary! Is Gary here? Oh, God! Something's happened to . . . to hold him up. H-he won't make it in time! He could be hurt . . ."  
  
"Hush, child," Mrs. Clark smiled. "He's waiting right outside this door. You just have a bad case of cold feet, is all. Now, I'm going to my seat, and your escort will come in when it's time." She paused to adjust her daughter's hat. "You are a vision, child," she sighed. "God grant you the happiness you deserve."  
  
"Thank you, Momma," Marissa responded tearfully. "Y-you're right. I'll be fine. Go on, now."  
  
A few minutes later, her entourage filed out, leaving Marissa to wait on her escort.   
  
"Wow," Gary exclaimed softly as he opened the door. "Emmett's lucky his best man is a med student."  
  
"Why is that?" the sightless bride asked with a puzzled frown.  
  
"When he sees you, he's gonna forget how to breathe," Gary elaborated. "You are gorgeous!"  
  
Marissa smiled at the compliment, instantly feeling more at ease. Of all the people there, she knew Gary would not say things just to flatter her. On this one day, she'd wanted to look her absolute best. Now she knew that she had succeeded.   
  
Gary took her right hand and placed it on his left arm. He could feel her tremors starting to diminish. "You're gonna be fine," he told her. "Emmett Brown is gonna take one look at you and fall in love all over again. He won't be able to help himself. Of course, if he doesn't, you and I can just slip off . . ."  
  
"Stop it," Marissa giggled, her smile widening at his implied suggestion. "You'll meet the right woman someday, and she'll take your breath away. Then I'll get to sit back with a smug grin and say 'I told you so.' And you'll sit around, grumbling and growling when I do."  
  
"Yeah, right," Gary chuckled, leading her toward the door. "From your mouth to God's ear. I just think He has other plans for me."  
  
As the music swelled and they began their stately march down the aisle, Marissa had to admit that Gary could be right. This time.  
  
*finito*  
Feedback to Polgana54@cs.com 


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